


It's Happened Again

by severalkittens



Series: A Song That I Heard [1]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, but I'm going to put them through some shit first, eventually anyway, there will be smut too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2020-10-13 15:38:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20584907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/severalkittens/pseuds/severalkittens
Summary: The second he sees the look on Paulo’s face, he knows this is going to be how it ends- Jan, standing on Paulo’s doorstep, saying the four words he knows no one ever wants to hear. Maybe it won’t be today, maybe they’ll have a couple more good months, or a couple more good years. But it’s going to happen, and this is how.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the deal. There are a good 10,000 or so words that happen between An Echo of Glory and this fic, but for some reason, writing straight-up fluff isn't happening for me right now. No one asked for this, but I only want to write angst, so that's what I'm going to do.
> 
> If you're here for fluff, I promise this will have a happy ending, so you should stick with me! If you're here for smut, I promise there will definitely be smut, so you should also stick with me for that too!

Pochettino’s desk is a deep cherry. Not over the top, but just chiseled enough for anyone looking at it to know it’s a _serious _desk. Jan’s never really payed much attention to it. Whenever he’s in here, it’s always to talk to Pochettino. And Jan lives for those chances, the ones wherethey get to go head to head, one center back to another. So he never really examines the desk. He usually stares straight ahead at the big man himself, eagerly awaiting any sliver of a chanceto engage Pochettino might present.

Maybe he knows already, way back in his mind. Because even though Pochettino’s waiting for him, surveying him carefully through his bifocal contacts, Jan’s extremely preoccupied with the detailing of the cherry wood under his left palm. Jan’s suddenly aware he’s facing the man who’s made his career. And he’s never been more aware how quickly it could all unravel.

“I can’t select you for Villa, Jan.” 

Ah, _there it is._ This is how it starts. Pochettino says it casually, conversationally, like he’s telling Jan to sit out the next drill, and not the first game of the season.

“What?”

“I don’t need to explain to you, do I?” Pochettino looks at him sternly. 

Jan opens his mouth to argue, ready to engage, ready to prove himself. But Pochettino’s already gone back to shuffling through a pile of papers on his desk. His frown is too concentrated, lip too pronounced, like he’s not even reading them. Jan shakes his head. No use arguing when Pochettino’s sitting on the other side of the desk with laser eyes for what could well be knitting patterns. 

It throws him for a minute, because Jan can count on half of one hand the number of times Pochettino’s intentionally shut him down like this. And they were all within his first three months, before Jan had carved out a place in Pochettino’s starting XI. He’s seen it a number of times, with Kaboul and the like, and more recently with Janssen and Nkoudou. But not with him, not with Jan. 

_Bet Winksy never gets this treatment, _he thinks, bitterness escaping from his training-fried brain onto his features for a second before he can stop it. Jan doesn’t even know where that thought came from. Winksy’s definitely Pochettino’s pet, and has probably never had to work for his attention. But it’s no fault of his own. And Jan realizes it’s only his if he doesn’t fight back now. 

“You’re wrong,” he says, eventually.

“Oh? Do share.” Pochettino’s still not looking up. His face is so calm Jan wants to reach across the stupid cherry desk, grab him by the chin, and shake him until his eyes widen with shock and he has no choice but to look, and fucking _listen _to what Jan has to say. 

“_I don’t need to explain to you, do I?_” Jan mimics, parroting Pochettino’s words back to him. The anger won’t go back where it came from, even though he knows he’s digging himself into a hole here. Knows he’s about to say something he truly regrets. But Pochettino’s face doesn’t even twitch, and he doesn’t even look up.

“Jan? You’re not there. Not your fitness, not your mind. I’ll see you in the stands.”

And Pochettino nods, the way Jan’s seen doctors nod on television to signify it’s over, the patient is dead. 

Jan stands, unfolding slowly, like he’s just learning how to move all his limbs. _That’s apt, _his traitorous brain supplies. Suddenly he’s horrified he’s going to bump into the door, knock over a chair, add to the growing list of evidence Pochettino’s surely been collecting against him. 

But he makes it out the door in one piece. He breaths a much larger sigh of relief than necessary, drags a slow hand down his face. Because this is what’s been lingering in the back of his mind. This is what he’s felt since the start of preseason. He’s a half a step off, a few degrees to the left of center. He’s cutting corners all the time. Making little concessions he knows he shouldn’t make. And that’s just in practice. Yeah, he’s been on the field for too many of the preseason goals they conceded. And yeah, Davinson needs minutes. Pochettino’s right, of course, and Jan knows it. His head hasn’t been in it.

He tries to tell himself he doesn’t know why. That it’ll all resolve and Pochettino will line him up against City when they go to the Etihad. He tries to reassure himself, some pathetic argument about work-life balance, but it falls flat in his own ears. Pochettino’s right, and Jan knows he is. Pochettino knows he knows. He has to do better.

_I’m not even going to go to the fucking game, _he thinks, angrily, gripping his steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. No, instead he’ll work out in the gym. He’ll meditate. He’ll get on his bike and ride until he’s so tired he can barely unclip from his pedals. Anything to get his typical sharpness back. He’d do anything, _anything_-

Jan’s so lost in his thoughts he doesn’t even realize he’s been sitting in his driveway for the last fifteen minutes until his phone buzzes. It’s Paulo, and his heart gives a nasty twist when he sees the messages.

_Hey, where are you?_

_Everything good with Poch?_

No, everything is not good with Poch. And the thought of having to sit down with Paulo, tell him what happened, tell him why- he can’t do it. Can’t pick over Pochettino’s words and the minutiae of his facial expressions. And he can’t lie, sit there and pretend everything is alright when it’s not. It fills him with a dread he can’t explain. He scrunches up his face, struggling to find the words.

_Can’t come by tonight. Something came up. _

Sending the text hurts. He almost instantly regrets it. Maybe he’s jumped to conclusions, andPaulo won’t make him rehash the entire meeting. Maybe has some perfect plan to cheer him up, or maybe he’ll just let Jan sit there in silence, which is all he really wants. 

He considers texting Paulo back, telling him he was _wrong_, _nothing came up_ and _he’ll be right there_. But the words Paulo’s said to him a thousand times before return to him, and they set bitterness bubbling in his gut: W_e need to communicate, Jan. _

Maybe Paulo needs that. But Jan honest to god cannot muster the energy to do it for him tonight. Right now, he just needs to be far, far away from everything Spurs. So instead of watching Paulo’s blinking three dots, waiting for the response, he shuts off his phone and heads inside. 

He can feel Paulo’s eyes on him when he walks into the locker room the next morning. They don’t usually sit together, even though most people know about them. He’s gotten pretty good at turning it off, just forgetting Paulo’s there. But he can’t quite manage it right now, not with Paulo’s worried eyes drilling holes in the back of his neck.

It’s only going to get worse, he knows. Because soon, they’ll head out to training. And everyone, not just Paulo, will be watching when Jan breaks rank and heads over to train with the group that isn’t in the match day squad.

“Big game tomorrow, eh?” It’s Dier, oblivious as always. He slings his arm around Jan’s shoulders as they walk towards the door. 

“Not now, Dier,” Jan hisses, swatting Dier’s heavy arm away. He pushes forcefully through the door, and jogs over to the alternate in a way he hopes to god is casual.

He can see Dier’s shocked face perfectly in his mind’s eye. He doesn’t even have to look to know Eric’s swiveled his head around, instinctively preparing to share the news with Dele before he realizes Dele’s not there. 

_That’s right, _Jan thinks. _Dele and I are training with the reject squad today._

It’s such a negative thought that Jan actually catches himself. _Get it together, _he tells himself, sharply. He’s lucky to be here, even if Pochettino hasn’t selected him this one time. He needsthis training to get his game back, just needs to focus on his body and the ball as hard as he can.

And it works, he actually manages to lose himself in the drills, forget the disaster that’s steadily creeping over his personal life. He’s smiling by the end of it, enjoying the breeze in his hair, laughing as Dele nutmegs Aurier for the seventh time. 

There’s something soothing about Dele’s levity, even here in a training session that’s not even leading to a big match. He ends up sitting with him in the canteen, and Winksy and Kyle, too. It’s their good humor and constant banter he’s drawn to. He’s not sure what his own face is doing, whether his jokes are landing, or if they can tell by the look on his face he’s not one hundred percent here. 

“Jan?” It’s Dele, pulling him back to the table as he gets up to leave. There’s unexpected softness in his voice, and Jan thinks maybe Dele’s been onto him this whole time. 

“Yeah?”

“Sess and I were going to sit together, at the game. You could join us.”

“What?”

“You haven’t been selected for Villa,” Dele says. “You should sit with us. When you come to the game.”

It’s a weird phrasing, and the slight emphasis Dele puts on ‘when’ makes Jan suspicious. Like he already knows Jan wasn’t going to come to the game. _ How does he know that? _

No, he can’t know, Jan decides. But he really is deeply grateful to Dele for looking after him, so he forces a smile onto his face.

“Sure, Del,” he says. “I’ll see you guys there.”

Jan tries to leave training quickly, before anyone notices, but Paulo catches him in the parking lot. He thinks about running, just hopping in his car and driving away. But then he realizes how ridiculous that is. _It’s Paulo. _He rests his thumb gently on the underside of Jan’s wrist, and yeah, Jan’s not going anywhere.

“Jan?” His wavers just a bit, something hiding just beyond the love and concern Jan expected. “You didn’t tell me you weren’t selected for Villa.”

“Yeah,” Jan says, rocking back on his heels. He doesn’t know what else to say. 

“Why not?”

“Pochettino wanted it to be a surprise,” Jan’s surprised how much confidence he’s able to force into the lie. Paulo’s rubbing circles into his wrist and Jan feels like the worst person in the world. 

“Yeah?” Paulo seems to buy it, relief sliding over his face. “Shit man, you want to come over? Talk it out?”

“No, Paulo, you need your rest. _You_ might actually play,” Jan says, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. It’s the true, but it feels like a lie, because Jan doesn’t actually want to talk.

“You’re more important,” Paulo says, voice earnest and open.

“I-“ Jan breaks off. _I’m not, _is what he wants to say. _I’m not more important than your entire career. _But he’s suddenly aware what saying that would start. So he slides his fingers into Paulo’s and shakes his head. “I’m fine, Paulo, really.”

Paulo glances around quickly, and leans in to peck Jan on the cheek.

“Go get some rest,” Paulo says. “I’ll see you tomorrow after the game.”

Jan knows he’s not going to be able to fall asleep before he even gets into bed. He can’t get Paulo’s words out of his mind, can’t stop fretting about what it means. Normally he’d park himself on his couch, but he’s got too many memories of Paulo in his basement. Fingering him on the pool table, taking care of him after he did his nose on Toby’s head. Caressing his cheeks and exchanging I-love-yous in the darkness, only their beating hearts to bear witness. 

The whole house is smothering him, so he takes a bottle of scotch and a crystal glass out onto his porch. He has to go back inside for a warmer jacket, he’d forgotten how cold and damp it could get at night. But eventually he settles in, staring blindly into the night sky and letting the oversized portions of drink he’s pouring himself dull his senses.

_You’re more important, _Paulo had said. But Jan’s not sure he can say the same. It’s tough, because he loves Paulo, he really does. And if he were drunk enough, he’d even admit he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his life with him. But is Paulo more important than everything Jan’s ever worked for? Does Paulo really think Jan is? Is their love worth them both sitting on the bench during every game for the rest of their lives?

Yeah, okay, that last one was a bit overboard. And maybe he’s blowing this whole thing out of proportion. Maybe Paulo was just being nice. Or maybe it’s Jan that’s wrong, and he should be ready to drop everything for Paulo. Even though it doesn’t quite feel healthy. He’s let Paulo take control in their relationship so far, and Paulo’s never led him astray. But it feels like Paulo’s asking for things Jan’s not sure he’s ready to give. It feels big, too big for Jan to really understand right now.

He pours himself another glass of scotch. He’s lost count of how many he’s had, and it’s the first reason he’s had to be thankful he’s not playing tomorrow. He’s seeing double of the stars, and he wonders desperately whether this is what they had in mind for him, or whether he somehow got lost along the way. He wonders what Paulo would say if he were sitting here beside him. 

Over the summer, Jan and Paulo had spoken of starting their own post-game routine, something they could do to unwind, relax, together. Jan knows Paulo already his own traditions, sitting in his back yard, drinking shitty beer, staring into a fire he built himself. When Paulo had suggested they spend that time together, Jan’s heart had swelled several sizes. 

But now, he’s not sure if he belongs there. He’s not sure if Paulo will expect him to talk, or even think. The quiet reflection is totally at odds with the way Paulo seems to want to be with Jan. It feels like his presence would destroy the easy, contemplative silence Paulo had described. Whatever’s going to happen, now he’s just dreading it.

When he makes his way up the stairs, he has to pause a few times to make sure his feet are really underneath him. Paulo’s already texted him goodnight by the time he climbs into bed, and he’s drunk enough that despite everything, he feels all warm and fuzzy inside. If he ignores all the right voices inside his head, he can pretend that everything is fine.

_Love you too xx_

He falls asleep imagining the look on Paulo’s face when he reads the text in the morning.

The game is what it is. They leave it late, as usual, but at least they win. At least nobody does anything super egregious.

Jan won’t admit it, but he’s hungover. Dele can probably tell, by the way he keeps sending coy smirks in Jan’s direction. But he hides his tired eyes behind sunglasses until he has enough coffee in him to power a small army.

Jan tries his hardest to keep his eyes away from Paulo’s shiny black hair. But he looks over every few minutes anyway. Every time he does, Jan can’t help but think about the way his hair smells, or the way it feels against his cheek. He actually misses Ndombele’s goal because he’s too busy squeezing his eyes shut, forcing out thoughts he probably shouldn’t be having in public.

The team is happy after, giddy, but Jan’s not. Jan’s in turmoil, exhausted, overworked, overthinking. He can barely muster a suitable congratulations for Ndombele on his debut goal. _Please, let everyone just think I’m pissed about the selection._

He avoids Toby, knowing there’s no way Jan’s mood will get past him. In the end, he manages to catch the Belgian press in the mixed zone. He catches Paulo’s eye from across the room as he explains _no, _he’s not injured_, yes,_ he’s fit.

But the interview can’t last forever, and Jan knows he needs to talk to Paulo eventually. So he pastes a smile on his face, glances over at Paulo once more, and makes his way out of the mixed zone into the car park.

He only has to wait outside the door for a few minutes before Paulo appears, leftover media charm lingering in his eyes.

“Come,” he says, wrapping a comforting arm around Jan’s shoulder. “We’ll have mate with the boys. And Hugo. Lamela’s place.”

Jan nods gratefully, and lets Paulo steer him to his car. He doesn’t particularly want to talk to anyone right now. But if it has to be anyone, he’s glad it’s the Argentinian boys, he’s glad it’s Hugo. He prefers their light-hearted chit-chat infinitely to facing the music with Paulo. Jan chews his lip and watches the buildings flash by, guiltily wondering what exactly he’s putting off, and how worried he should be.

The evening lulls Jan into a false sense of security. It’s the twinkling lights Lamela has strung around his porch. It’s the earthiness of the mate, the mixture of languages, the new boy Lo Celso’s ridiculous, shy laugh. Jan relaxes when Paulo’s hands sneak around his hips, when he drops a sneaky kiss to Jan’s neck, hidden away in the kitchen. Everything is fine, this was just a little blip and they won’t even have to talk about it. 

It’s only later, once they’re both naked and curled up together in bed, that Paulo really pounces. He’s carefully stroking the hair back from Jan’s forehead, and Jan’s eyes are drooping shut, almost there. But then Paulo opens his mouth. 

“You’re not talking to me,” he says. Jan’s eyes snap open.

“Yes I am,” he starts, warily. “How could you think that-“ 

“Jan, don’t play dumb.” The words bite into Jan’s ears, and he falls silent. Paulo holds his gaze for a second, and then resumes carefully stroking Jan’s hair.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were dropped against Villa?”

“I don’t have to tell you every time something happens to me at work,” Jan snaps, pulling back. Paulo’s fingers drag across his temples and drop frozen to the pillow in front of his face.

“I don’t understand, though,” Paulo says, rolling his eyes and propping himself up on the pillows to look at Jan. 

“Why would you not want to tell me? I _want_ to hear. I _want _to help you. I _want_ to be there for you,” he punctuates his words with harsh jabs of his hand, but he trails off for a second. When he speaks again, his calm, earnest voice raises the hairs on the back of Jan’s neck. 

“Do you not want that?”

“I do,” Jan starts, carefully. “But,” _But what? _Jan’s brain supplies. Honestly, he has an answer. He just really doesn’t want to share it.

“But what?” Paulo prompts. Jan flops over on his back, an inch further from Paulo’s careful hands.

“But not all the time,” he finishes lamely, looking at the ceiling.

“Why not?” 

God, he really, _really_ doesn’t want to talk about this right now. His brain is spinning aimlessly, working overtime trying to figure out a way to escape this conversation. 

How the hell is he supposed to tell Paulo what this is really about? How is he supposed to watch Paulo’s face break, listen to his horrible, earnest disappointment that Jan just couldn’t tell him the truth? 

The words get stuck in his throat, so he says nothing at all.

“Jan, are you ok?” Paulo inches forward, slides his arms loosely, cautiously around Jan’s shoulders.

“Yeah,” he says. Suddenly, it’s a struggle to hold still. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Paulo says. He curls his arms around Jan a little tighter, and Jan fights the urge to squirm away. “You need to talk to me. We can’t do this if you don’t talk to me.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats, slowing his breath in what he hopes is a convincing imitation of sleepiness. “I’m just tired.”

But he’s not. Paulo drops off after a few minutes, he can feel the little puffs of breath hitting the back of his neck wetly. Usually he’d think it was cute, but tonight it’s almost unbearable. Jan waits until the breaths sufficiently slow, and then he slips out carefully. 

It’s hours later when he finally drifts off, his only companions in the darkness Paulo’s even puffs of breath, and the accusing red clock face reminding him it’s 3:00 AM.


	2. Chapter 2

Jan wakes up the next morning with exhausted, aching eyes, and Paulo’s morning wood nudging him in the back. Paulo turns him over and pulls at his hips roughly, kisses him sleepily. Jan quickly shoves his misgivings aside when he feels his body responding, feels the heat pooling in his belly.

Paulo slots his big thigh in between Jan’s legs, rolls his hips lazily until they’re both clutching at each other desperately, moments away from coming undone. He loves when Paulo is like this, soft, pliable, everywhere underneath Jan’s skin. 

They make a mess, and Jan doesn’t care. He balls up the sticky, sweaty sheets, tosses them in the laundry, and joins Paulo in the shower. It’s slow touches and lazy scrubbing, and Jan’s melting. He finishes getting ready slowly, warm and fuzzy from the orgasm, the steam of the shower, and Paulo’s hands running over his skin.

It’s hard for Jan to recall just now that things aren’t always this easy. Between the way Paulo had lulled him into a warm, relaxed haze at Lamela’s, then looked him in the eye and begged him to speak right before they went to bed. But this morning, he’d kissed Jan like they had all the time in the world, made him come so hard he’d have happily died, held him in the shower and rocked him back and forth and washed his hair like he was a child. 

It’s only later, sitting at Paulo’s kitchen table in the soft morning light, that the disconnect really settles in. Paulo slides a glass of orange juice across the table and winks at him sweetly. _So he’s going to act like nothing happened,_ Jan thinks. He remembers the way Paulo pushed him up against, Lamela’s stainless steel fridge and dotted kisses up his neck while he was probably already thinking of asking Jan why he wouldn’t talk about Villa. He shudders, wondering why Paulo’s being so sweet and what kind of conversation he’s going to spring on Jan next. 

It almost makes him cry right there, his suspicion at Paulo’s sweetness. A month ago, he’d have accepted it at face value. Paulo _is _sweet, he _does _dote on Jan. With that unhappy thought, he goes about gathering up his stuff, carrying it out to the car, buckling into Paulo’s passenger seat and trying to act like everything is normal.

Jan kisses Paulo goodbye in the parking lot, anxiety about their relationship still racing around his chest. But under Pochettino’s judging eye, he has no choice but to try his hardest to focus on football. He tries his hardest to keep his head in every game, every drill, but he’s still not great. He’s still a bit off pace, his brain is still playing catch up with the rest of his body. He heads home, cold, frustrated, and bone tired in a way he usually only feels later in the season. 

He’s curled up under the blankets on his couch when Paulo texts.

_Need some company? _

He considers saying no. But he supposes he owes Paulo an honest effort. It wouldn’t do to push him away any more than he’s already done. There’s also the faint memory of Paulo’s hands running up his back in the shower that morning.

_Yes please xx_

He shuts off his phone and burrows under his blankets to wait.

Paulo shows up a half hour later with takeout, Jan’s favorite noodles. He sets it down on the coffee table and disappears off into the kitchen. A little while later, he joins Jan under the blankets on the couch with cups of tea. He doesn’t say anything, just reads his book (Jan thinks it’s some cheesy Spanish romance novel, but he can’t be sure because his Spanish isn’t great and Paulo always tells him it’s about cars), and lets Jan listen to his cycling podcasts. 

Maybe Paulo can tell how tense he is, how he’s still waiting for the next talk, for the other shoe to drop. He climbs into bed behind Jan later that night, and squeezes his shoulders a couple times before settling in close.

“We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” he says, kissing the back of Jan’s neck. His arms tighten around Jan’s hips. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

He leans into Paulo’s lips on his neck, closes his eyes. “Thank you, love.”

After they’ve turned out the lights, Paulo makes him come again, this time, with his wet, soft lips. Jan sleeps like a baby for the first time in weeks, fingers tangled up with Paulo’s.

Slowly, ever so carefully, he starts to relax. Maybe Paulo’s not waiting to spring another talk about their relationship. Maybe he’s finally realized how much he’d been pushing Jan, finally realized Jan wasn’t having the best time of it, and backed off. 

He gets better on the field, too. Jan’s regaining some of his focus, his sharpness. On the final day before Pochettino decides who’s traveling to the Etihad, he’s certain he sees Pochettino give an approving nod when Jan tackles the ball away from Harry Kane.

When he creeps into Pochettino’s office the next morning, he’s so happy he’s almost humming out loud. He doesn’t though, because that would be embarrassing. Pochettino half-smiles and looks up at him when he takes seat on the other side of that big cherry desk.

“Better from you this week. You already know that.” Pochettino has his glasses on, and this time he’s looking Jan in the eye.

Jan smiles, looks back.

“But I know you can give me more. You’ll start the game on the bench. I won’t sub you in unless I have to,” Pochettino takes off his glasses, starts cleaning them on the fabric of his jacket.

“But-“ Jan’s heart had leapt at the words _you’ll start the game. _He knows Pochettino didn’t mislead him on purpose- his English isn’t near good enough- but it still hurts. He swallows his protests before he gets sent home without a proverbial bus ticket.

“Keep up the good work, Jan.”

Paulo invites Jan over to cook that night, and Jan eagerly accepts. He _loves_ cooking with Paulo, and it’s the perfect ending to a rough week. He goes out of his way to look nice- trims his beard, wears the tan henley he knows Paulo loves. He even goes out of his way to pick up Paulo’s favorite bottle of red wine. Jan’s happy with his progress with Paulo, happy with his progress on the field. And god, he’ll be even happier if they can really make this all work. 

Paulo gives him a big smile when he opens the door. He’s wearing an apron over his sweater, and he smells like garlic and rosemary, along with his usual cologne.

“Jan, come in,” he says, wrapping an arm around Jan’s shoulders and taking the bottle of wine. He presses his lips to Jan’s and hums into the kiss.

“I thought we’d have lamb,” he says.

Jan smiles. He follows Paulo into the kitchen, waits while he takes two tall-stemmed glasses from his cupboard and uncorks the wine.

“You do the honors, Jan?” Paulo says, returning to his cutting board.

Jan pours a splash of the wine into each cup, and slides one next to where Paulo’s working. He wraps his arms around Paulo’s waist and squeezes. Jan adores Paulo like this- the way his biceps bulge, the concentration on his face.

“Missed you,” he says, pressing his lips to the back of Paulo’s neck. Paulo shivers.

“I saw you in training today,” Paulo says, chuckling at jan as he slides a neat little pile of chopped garlic over to the side of the board.

“Hmmm, yes,” Jan whispers. “But I didn’t get to do _this_.” He pulls Paulo’s collar down an inch and drops a wet kiss onto Paulo’s spine. 

“Ooh, careful, Jan,” Paulo says, rolling his shoulder. “I think you want me to keep all my fingers, no?” His knife hovers over the board as he turns to give Jan a wink. Jan feels it all the way down to his toes. 

Jan pulls back a bit to give Paulo some space. Instead, he lets his hand trail down Paulo’s back, slide up underneath his sweater to rest on the bare skin of his back. The lamb is all set out, salted, peppered, and nearly ready to go. Jan watches fondly as Paulo rubs the spices into the meat. He slides the cuts onto a pan, slides the pan into the oven and sets the timer on the stove. When Paulo turns around, Jan’s on him in a second, hands on his hips, lips pressing messy kisses to his face.

“Ah, ah, be patient, Jan. Let me wash my hands,” he says, huskiness apparent in his voice. He bumps Jan to the side with his shoulder, and slides out to clean himself up. 

As soon as Paulo’s done, though, he grabs Jan firmly by the waist, walks him back toward the fridge. There’s desire burning in his eyes, matching the hunger of his hands working their way up Jan’s back. Paulo’s lips are honey on his, addictive and hot. Chest pressed against his chest, hips driving into hips. Jan loses himself in it all, forgets they’re in Paulo’s kitchen, forgets there’s lamb sizzling in the oven, forgets his own name. It’s only the harsh ring of the stove timer that brings him back to earth.

Paulo rests his head against Jan’s for a minute, eyes closed, chest heaving. He pulls away with a sigh and cracks open the oven. Jan leans back against the refrigerator, a bit weak in the knee, and watches Paulo fuss with the meat.

“Can you make the sauce, love?” Paulo murmurs, brow furrowed as he reads the temperature on the meat thermometer.

“Yeah, sure,” says Jan, heart nearly bursting when Paulo looks up, leans over and kisses him on the cheek. 

He always lets Paulo steer him through making the pan sauce, even though he already knows how. It’s the way Paulo teases, covering his hand when he pours in the beef stock, kissing up the side of his neck while he’s stirring, their own little routine.

“Just a bit longer, love,” Paulo says. Jan keeps stirring the sauce, and Paulo carefully lines up their hips, rocks against him gently. 

All too fast, the sauce is ready, and it’s time to eat. Paulo lights candles in the dining room, and Jan carries in the glasses of wine. The food tastes just as good as Jan expects, it always does with Paulo. Lamb done to perfection, juicy and not a hair overdone. There are crispy roasted brussels sprouts and tiny little potatoes that Paulo must have made before Jan arrived. Paulo tells him some story about Toni, the goalkeeping coach, and Jan tries his best to laugh between bites so he doesn’t choke.

Every few minutes, he and Paulo catch each others’ eyes through the candle light. Every time it happens, Paulo’s eyes light up, and he gives him that tiny little smile, the one Jan’s come to associate with slow fucking and deep kisses. By the time Jan finishes his meal, his senses are dulled from the glass of red wine. He feels sleepy and sexy, and thankful to be loved by such a wonderful cook.

“Sofa?” Paulo says, stifling a yawn and pushing back from the table. He looks as blissed out as Jan feels.

“Sofa,” Jan agrees.

They curl up on the couch, Jan nestled between Paulo’s legs. Paulo passes Jan the book he keeps on the coffee table, and takes out his own. Jan tries his best to read even though his eyes keep drifting shut, and Paulo’s free hand is warm against his stomach.

Jan’s startled out of his post-dinner haze by Paulo’s little cough. He’s not really coughing, Jan knows all the little noises Paulo makes well enough to know this little cough is new.Suddenly, there’s a buzzing in the air that wasn’t there before. Jan’s nervous, and he can’t put his finger on why. Something about the tension in Paulo’s forearm, that tiny cough, or maybe the fact that Paulo’s had his book out for a good twenty minutes, but Jan hasn’t heard him turn a single page.

“You looked better this week. In training,” Paulo says. He turns the page of his book, finally. Then another.

“Do I?” he says, lightly. 

“Sharper. More tuned in. I think Pochettino’s noticed,” Paulo says. He’s still got the book open,resting against Jan’s shoulder, pretending to read. Jan’s irrationally annoyed.

“Has he?” Jan’s not sure whose voice has more of an edge.

“I’m certain. You’re starting tomorrow then?” There’s uncharacteristic bitterness seeping out of Paulo’s words, and Jan’s heart sinks. He’s pretty sure he knows exactly where this is coming from.

“No,” Jan says, closing his book and setting it down on the coffee table. He sits back, next to Paulo, so he can see his face. “Actually, I’m not.”

“What?” Paulo’s mouth drops open. “Why?“

“He still thinks I can do better,” Jan says, picking at his cuticles. Paulo’s voice is way too brittle the next time he speaks.

“I don’t understand, though, you’ve been decent enough.” Jan counts Paulo’s breaths as he waits for him to continue. Paulo finally closes his book. “Is that why he dropped you against Villa?”

Jan only shrugs. “Tactical reasons, you heard him in the press conference, no?”

Now it’s Paulo’s turn to shrug and look at the floor.

“Ah, I see,” says Jan, rolling his eyes. “You’re still mad because I didn’t tell you about Villa.”

Paulo’s silence tells him everything he needs to know. So much for letting Jan be this week.

“You’ve been sitting here all week pretending everything is fine? What happened to your famous communication?” Jan spits.

“You won’t talk to me,” Paulo says, eyes wide. “What else was I supposed to do? Keep pushing?”

Jan doesn’t say anything, so Paulo continues.

“I thought this way at least you’d feel like you could get your starting place back.” 

Jan’s eyebrows fly to his hairline. “You think my success in football has to come at your expense?”

“I think _you_ think that,” Paulo says, eyes boring into him.

“That is _not _what I think,” Jan hisses, a little too angrily. There’s a little voice in the back of his head is asking him if Paulo’s right. Paulo sighs, and leans his head against Jan’s shoulder.

“I just want you to be happy,” he says softly.

“And I just needed a little space. Is that really so hard for you to understand?” He can’t stop the frustration spilling into his voice at the end, even though his hand has made its way into Paulo’s hair and started stroking softly.

“We just need to work through things,” he says, snuggling closer to Jan. “Find a balance.”

Jan sighs heavily, and wraps his arms around Paulo’s shoulders. He has no idea how this all went so sour so quickly. Apparently Paulo wasn’t as ok with his silence as he initially said. They should finish this, try to work it out. But he’s so tired, and Jan doesn’t even know what he wants. So he lets Paulo snuggle into his chest, kisses the top of his head.

Paulo’s right here, his muscular shoulders are right under Jan’s thumbs. But he’s never felt farther away. 

It’s worse, sitting on the bench. At least when he was up in the stands, he could hide behind his sunglasses. It’s worse because it’s City, too. And God, he’d give anything to be out there. He’s certain he’d be able to do better, certain that if Poch would just put him in, he could lock things down. 

_Probably not, though, _he tells himself. He’s never been more distracted in his career, with Paulo only five seats away. Jan can feel his presence, and he’s not sure if it’s too far, or too close. This is exactly what he didn’t want. A talk right before a game. Something he knows they’re going to rehash later.

Everyone else is giddy with the VAR result, giddy even though they probably shouldn’t be happy at all about the way they played. Jan’s not, and he cranes his neck eagerly trying to spot the Belgian press in the mixed zone. Anything to avoid Paulo, or Toby. He can’t escape this time, though, because he’s about to head out into the mixed zone when Toby grabs him by the elbow.

“Beers at mine after?” He’s got a look in his eye, one that Jan knows means business. Jan hesitates, wondering whether he really wants to dump all this, whatever this is, on Toby.

“Paulo can come,” he adds. Of course Toby’s mistaken his hesitation for something else, bless him.

“No, no, that’s ok, I’ll come,” Jan says, probably a little too quickly judging from the way Toby’s eyebrows fly to his scalp.

“Good,” he says, nodding awkwardly, taking a step back. “Good.”

Toby lets him get through his second beer before he makes him talk. Jan’s standing up to get a third when Toby fixes him with a death stare.

“Don’t,” he says. “Two is enough. Don’t make it worse.”

_Thanks for that, _Jan thinks. But Toby’s right. He really shouldn’t have another beer, not with his fitness in question like it is.

“Talk,” Toby says, once Jan finishes rolling his eyes and sits back down.

“I think I might need to break up with Paulo,” he says. It comes out quickly, way more easily than he expected. And when he says the words, he knows they’re true.

It’s clearly not what Toby was expecting. His eyebrows do that thing where they try to escape from his face. He opens his mouth for a minute, then closes it. Then he opens it again.

“Why?” Is all he says. Jan doesn’t answer, just steeples his fingers and rests his forehead on them, eyes closed. 

“Did something happen?”

“No,” Jan says. “No, I’m pretty sure it’s me.”

“Jan, what are you talking about? Tell me now or I’m leaving you here and going to bed.”

And so Jan does. He tells him about the corners he’s cut in his fitness, in training. Tells him about the conversation with Pochettino. He tells him about all the things Paulo wants him to say, all the things Paulo wants him to be, and all the things he just can’t.

At first, Toby looks like he’s going to smack Jan. He’s probably dying to say exactly what Paulo says to him all the time.

_We need to communicate, Jan. This won’t work if we don’t communicate. _

But the more Jan talks, the more the horrified look slides off Toby’s face, the more it’s replaced by something older and desperately sadder. 

“It’s not his fault,” Jan says. “I know I should talk to him and I know we could probably work this out. But I just can’t. I’m not there yet. I can’t give anything else up for him.”

His voice is starting to crack, and he tells himself it’s from exhaustion, even though it’s totally not.

“It’s kinder-” he swallows, and finds his voice again. “It’s kinder to just end it before, you know, someone gets hurt.”

“Yeah,” Toby says eventually, eyes wide, luminous, and so incredibly sad. “You should talk to him first. But I think you’re probably right.”

Jan’s almost angry. He wanted Toby to yell at him, knock some sense into him. Tell him to pick a fight and work it out. But he doesn’t. And even if he had, Jan’s mind is already made up. He knows it’s not right.

He checks his phone before he goes to bed in Toby’s guestroom. Paulo texted him four times while they were outside. Just to check in, of course. He’s so much more calm than Jan would have been if the situations were reversed. Jan probably would have texted twenty. But that’s exactly why he can’t do this right now. He’s given up too large a piece of himself. 

_Hey, _he texts back eventually. He pauses over his next words for so long, Paulo sends him back a _hey yourself, _with a few of Jan’s favorite heart emojis. And suddenly Jan wants to cry. It’s Paulo, who loves Jan so wonderfully and carefully. How can he even consider doing this?

He considers calling Paulo, asking him to pick him up. He imagines telling him everything, crying his eyes out in the front seat of the car while Paulo strokes his hair. Paulo would cry too, probably. He imagines crying with Paulo for hours, hashing and rehashing everything from the past week, all the little things they always rehash. 

He imagines crying for so long he starts to feel like he’s actually dehydrated in real life. Jan gulps down the glass of water Toby left on his bedside table. Eventually he picks up his phone and texts Paulo back.

_With Toby, needed to talk to him about something. See you tomorrow?_

Paulo responds with more heart emojis, because of course he does. Jan barely sleeps a wink that night, Paulo’s emojis playing on a reel through his mind until they look like characters in a horror film.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, it's hard to write arguments.


	3. Chapter 3

Jan and Toby don’t really talk in the morning. When Jan stumbles into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, Toby just looks at him carefully and slides a plate of toast to the seat at his left. Jan takes the seat, and the toast. He chews carefully, even though it’s dry and he can’t taste much other than his own tongue.

“Thanks, Toby,” is all he says before he leaves.

By the time Jan stops home, showers and changes, and makes it over to Paulo’s, he’s decided he’s not going to do it, not right away. He’ll tell Paulo everything he told Toby, he owes Paulo that. They can talk, try to hash it out. He owes _himself _that.

Jan rings Paulo’s doorbell. The sound of it surprises him- deep and low like giant church bells. He hasn’t rang the doorbell in weeks, usually he just lets himself in. The door opens a crack, and then all the way. Jan’s heart drops into his stomach. The second he sees the look on Paulo’s tired face, he just knows. This is going to be how it ends- Jan, standing on Paulo’s doorstep, saying the four words he knows no one ever wants to hear. Maybe it won’t be today, maybe they’ll have a couple more good months, or a couple more good years. But it’s going to happen eventually, and this is how.

“We need to talk,” Jan says, eyes on Paulo’s sock-clad feet.

Paulo welcomes him in silently, leads him into the living room, like he already knows why Jan’s here. Jan picks the austere leather chair. Paulo sits at the very corner of the couch, close enough to touch, but just far enough to remind him not to. 

Once upon a time, on their first real date, Jan had worn a fuzzy grey sweater so Paulo would want to touch him, cuddle him, hold him close. Today he’s just wearing a plain black t-shirt, tucked into his jeans, cinched with a plain black belt. He swallows, dread building in his chest, fear paralyzing his hands. He takes a shaky breath, picking over words he really, _really_ doesn’t want to say.

“Um,” he starts. “I’m not very good at communication.” He can tell Paulo’s trying pretty hard not to roll his eyes. He doesn’t care.

“I’m trying. For you,” he presses on. “But it’s _hard _for me. And I can’t always-“ he swallows, mouth suddenly dry. 

“I can’t always give you what you seem to need.”

Paulo’s still staring at him, stony faced. He’s sitting awkwardly on the couch, angled towards Jan even though the couch isn’t. He vaguely wishes they were sitting somewhere else, maybe somewhere more comfortable, but when it comes down to it, was there really a good place to have this conversation? Jan waits a beat more, hoping for some reaction out of Paulo, even the twitch of a cheek, but it doesn’t come.

“It doesn’t mean I don’t care for you, Paulo,” he tries. Ok, that’s all he has. He goes back to staring at his hands.

“I know you do, Jan,” Paulo says, eventually. Jan almost flinches at the sound of Paulo’s tired voice. “I just wish you would open up to me.”

It’s so predictable Paulo, Jan has to work not to roll his eyes.

“I’m opening up to you now,” he says, spreading his fingers out like it’s obvious.

“Great,” says Paulo, rubbing his hands together. “Then why didn’t you tell me you were dropped against Villa?”

“Why do you need me to tell you every single thing that happens at Spurs? You’re there too, you hear the rumors.” He cringes internally at the horrible fake innocence dripping from his own voice.

Paulo snorts. “It’s not about Spurs, it’s about you.”

“It’s not about me,” Jan says, voice rising. “Pochettino dropped me for tactical reasons, you saw what he said. In the press confere-“

“_Fuck_ what he said in the press conference,” Paulo cuts across him, eyes spitting. “You know as well as I do what Pochettino says in the press conference means _nothing_.”

“Why are we talking about this?” Jan says, sliding a finger under his collar to loosen its restrictive grasp. “I came here to talk about us, not about Pochettino and his press conferences.”

_“_Jan, it is about us. Pochettino dropped you against Villa, and you canceled our plans and went straight home._ And you won’t even tell me why.” _

Jan takes a deep breath. Despite what he said, this is actually what he came here to talk about. He just still somehow hoped he’d be able to avoid it, but clearly that’s not going to happen. He takes a minute to rummage around his brain for an excuse. Anything other than the real reason, the one he’s barely even admitted to himself. There’s nothing there, though, so he opens his mouth.

“I was dropped against Villa,” he says. _Inhale, exhale. _

“Because,” _inhale, exhale._

“Pochettino thinks I’ve been distracted,” _inhale, exhale._

“Jan,” Paulo says, voice soft. He must know what’s coming next by now. Jan resigns himself to speaking that final, damning sentence. The one he’s been holding in for weeks. 

“The thing is, I have been distracted,” Jan says. His voice feels stronger now, like it’s relieved he’s finally letting it out. He looks down. If he keeps watching Paulo’s wide, wet swimming pool eyes, he’s certainly going to drown. 

“I’ve been distracted by you,” he whispers. Paulo’s face twists in hurt for an instant, but he schools it quickly.

“Well that’s ok! You could have told me that, Jan,” he says, hands gesturing wildly. “We need to talk about these things. So we can work something out, like you don’t have to stay over before practice, we don’t have to go out as often, we can-“

“Paulo,” Jan says, but Paulo keeps going. He almost sounds excited, now. 

“It’s easy! We just need to-“

“_Paulo,” _Jan hisses. “I know we need talk about it. _That’s the problem.” _

“Ok,” Paulo says carefully. His face looks like it’s made of ice now that he’s fallen silent, like if Jan so much as grazed his cheek he’d shatter.

“When I say I’ve been distracted, it’s- I can’t- I feel like I don’t have the energy. During the season. I just-“ he pauses, digging his teeth into a bit of dry skin on his lip.

“Jan, if you don’t want to talk about it, then why are we even-“

“_Let me finish,” _Jan says. He’s been trying his hardest to get the words out, but they’re sticking in all the wrong places. He finds the little piece of skin with his teeth, and bites it off.

“I’m trying to be honest with you. I’m trying to talk to you now.” He takes a shaky breath. “It’s just hard.”

“I know we’re still working on it,” Paulo says, gently. “But relationships are work. You can’t expect it to be _easy-” _The look on Paulo’s face finishes him. He looks so hopeful, so confident in his magic solution, communication. But Jan knows it’s not going to be enough.

“No, look, Paulo, that’s the problem,” he says. “I’m always fucking worrying about the next time we’re going to have to _talk_. It’s been what, five months? It should _not_ be this hard.” He strikes his palm against his knee sharply.

“You can’t measure a relationship in months, _surely _you know that-“ Paulo’s voice is rising, and so is Jan’s frustration.

“That’s not the point,” Jan says. “The other week- the other week you said to me, you asked if I wanted to come over, to talk about it. You said it was more important to you than resting up for the game.”

“I meant it,” says Paulo. He reaches out, like he’s going to touch Jan’s knee or something. Jan rests his head in his hands and says nothing, and Paulo snatches his hand back.

“I don’t-“ he says eventually, throat closing up before he can get the word out. “I’m not there yet, Paulo.”

“I see,” Paulo says slowly, nodding. “Ok."

“Ok,” Jan agrees. He fists his shaking hand. Maybe this is all going to be ok, after all. “So we’re good?”’

“No,” says Paulo, voice small. “I don’t think we are.”

“No?” Jan says. His brain hasn’t quite kicked into gear yet. He can tell he’s making a ridiculous face, eyes wide and innocent, mouth slightly parted, but he can’t quite wipe it off. 

“No, yeah, I,” Paulo swallows. “I can’t do that right now.”

“I’m not saying I’m not going to get there,” Jan says, suddenly panicked. “Maybe I will! I just can’t say right now- you’re really going to end this because after five months, I can’t say I’m ready to put you ahead of my career?” 

Jan has no fucking clue how this conversation has turned south so quickly. He’s rewinding in his brain, trying to pick out whatever he said that made it all go wrong, some point in time he could have shut up, just stopped talking, where everything would still be fine.

“I just can’t,” Paulo says, in that same small, choked voice. “Not if you’re going to-” he stops, takes a careful breath. “If you’re not going to go all in, I don’t think I can.”

“If that’s what you want,” Jan says, dully. Somehow, he’d expected more of a discussion than this. He’s here, laying everything out, finally talking like Paulo wants him to, but Paulo seems ready to bail at the first chance.

Paulo stays silent for so long, eyes cast down at the plush white rug, Jan starts to think about just getting up to leave. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. There’s nothing on the leather chair for him to touch. Nowhere in the room for him to look except for Paulo’s sloped shoulders. His hand twitches toward Paulo of its own accord. It’s too much, he can’t sit here like this any longer. He starts gets to his feet. 

“Jan, it’s _not _what I want,” Paulo says, covering his eyes with a big hand. “I want to be with you. And I want you to _talk to me. Like we said._ I want to be the first one you come to when there’s something wrong_…”_

His voice peters out, _broken_, and Jan’s suddenly terrified. He’s never seen Paulo lose control like this. Never even really seen him break down. Jan desperately wants to reach across to the other couch and draw Paulo’s hand away from his face, kiss away the tension.

“I’m coming to you now, I’m trying _right now_,” Jan says. His voice is high pitched and watery, feels like it belongs to someone else, and Paulo still hasn’t looked up. Jan wants to die.

“I want to be able to, I _want_ to give you what you need.” Jan’s voice cracks painfully. “But,” he tries to swallow, “I can’t do what you want, I can’t talk to you like this and give you all this time. Not if I’m trying to give Pochettino what he needs. _This is the best I can do right now._”

It all comes out in a rush, and when he’s done, his voice is higher and harsher than he ever meant, and tears are prickling behind his eyes. He can tell Paulo’s face has crumpled behind his hand, and Jan’s heart is in pieces right inside his chest. 

“But you love me,” Paulo whispers, sliding his hands into Jan’s. “If you love me, how can you say you can’t-“

He breaks off, bewildered expression on his face and his voice shot and Jan really doesn’t want to think about what he’s just done. Deep down inside, he hadn’t really believed he had the power to hurt Paulo, and now that he has, he has absolutely no idea what to do.

“Paulo,” Jan starts. If he watches the emotions running across Paulo’s face, he might vomit. So instead he stares past their linked fingers at the floor.

“Jan, I swear, if you just tried,-“ 

“I _am _trying,” Jan’s throat dangerously tight. He can barely breath. It’s really happening, and Jan can’t do anything to stop it.

“No, Jan, if you _really tried, _we could talk about it. We can work this out. You don’t have to feel like this.” Paulo’s way too close, he reaches a hand toward Jan’s chin and tries to lift it. Jan keeps his head down, but the way Paulo’s fingers feel against his skin is killing him.

“But I do feel like this, I can’t help it,” Jan says quietly, taking a step backward. Paulo comes with him. “You’re just not listening to me.”

“I am,” Paulo says. “I hear you. I just-“ he mumbles something Jan can’t hear. _No, please._

Paulo’s hands are back in his, Jan looks up, questioningly. 

“Can’t you just- try harder?” Paulo’s eyes are damp and there are tears running down his cheeks, and all Jan wants is to try. All he wants is to take it back, take everything that’s happened in the past two weeks back. He wants to wrap Paulo up, hold him close and never let him go. He wants to run from the room, get in his car, drive away, and never come back. 

He can’t, though, so he just shakes his head.

“_But I love you_,” Paulo whispers.

_I love you, too, _Jan thinks. But he can’t say it. Can’t make it worse than it already is. His throat is so tight he feels like he’s probably dying. Maybe he is.

Jan just keeps shaking shakes his head, stricken. Paulo stands there, gulping, looking like he’s waiting for Jan to change his mind. He’s not going to, though. Not even though Paulo’s clutching at his hands, stroking his fingers like they’re the most precious thing in the world. 

"Paulo," he whispers, tugging away his fingers half-heartedly. “Come on, _please_.” 

But he doesn't step back when Paulo buries his face in the crook of Jan's neck, and next thing he knows his hands are resting on the curve of his spine. He doesn't know why he's letting Paulo do this, why he’s encouraging it. Doesn't know why he can’t swallow down the lump stuck in his throat no matter how hard he tries. 

“Paulo."

His voice cracks, and he leans into the dampness of Paulo’s cheek pressed tight against his neck. Paulo doesn't speak, doesn't make a sound, just presses his lips to Jan's collarbone. Jan’s heart twists painfully, and he wishes desperately he could shut it all off. Hold his head up and walk out of there with his dignity still intact. 

But even now after he's said all that, he just can't bring himself to shove Paulo off and walk away. He already knows what’s going to happen next. Paulo’s lips are too hot, traveling up Jan’s neck, and Jan can barely see past the guilt. He knows he isn’t going to say no.

Jan’s own cheeks are damp now, he’s not exactly sure when he started crying. Paulo’s lips burn against his jawline, touching all the same places they touched that first night. Jan doesn’t close the distance this time, Paulo does. It’s a breathless kiss, both of them choked up and struggling for air.

Jan tries not to think too much about the fact that his nose is pouring, he’s probably snotting all over Paulo’s face and he should be incredibly embarrassed. He tries not to think too much about the fact that what he should really do is grab Paulo by the chin, turn him away, and leave before they make everything worse.

But instead he lets Paulo’s hands fist into his shirt like they’re about to fuck for the first time, lets Paulo tug and tug until he falls to his knees. Paulo hiccups wetly when Jan kisses across his stomach and presses his cheek against his zipper. _How is he hard right now? _Jan wonders, unzipping mindlessly. Jan’s personally not sure he’s ever going to be able to get it up again.

He swallows down Paulo’s erection, and Paulo tangles his hands into Jan’s hair so hard his neck jerks back. They’re both being careless, faster, sloppier. Jan can barely breath, barely has the presence of mind to fold his lips over his teeth. But Paulo only moans when his molar bites into soft skin, lets out a stifled sob when the head of his cock slips into the back of Jan’s throat and he gags on it. 

He digs his fingernails into Paulo’s hips so hard it’ll probably leave marks. It’s all he can do not to think about how Paulo will have to look at the little row of red crescents later, after Jan’s gone and not coming back.

It’s all Jan can think about, jaw relaxed, Paulo fucking his mouth like they’ll do this every night. They won’t. Jan imagines Paulo alone in bed, trying to get off with a bunch of tissues. He imagines Paulo, twirling a pool stick in his hands, seducing someone else, fucking someone else. _Please, you can’t forget about me, _Jan begs silently, like he’s down on his knees to pray. 

Jan never wants to stop giving this blow job, because he knows as soon as Paulo comes it’s all over. He slows down, draws his lips back to the tip, tries to delay the inevitable. But Paulo apparently has no such concerns, because his hands clench in Jan’s hair and he cries out. 

Jan’s too shaken to prepare for Paulo coming. He’s got the tip of Paulo’s cock grasped between his lips, but it’s not enough. Paulo’s still coming when he pulls off, coughing, and it splashes against his cheek and dribbles onto his shirt instead. 

Paulo’s down on his knees in a second, worried look in his eyes even though Jan’s just broken his heart and let this go way too far. Of course, Jan thinks, of course Paulo would still take care of him. Perfect.

“Jan, are you ok?”

Jan nods mutely, wiping his face on his sleeve, swallowing shakily. 

“Come here,” Paulo says. 

Jan’s too shocked to do anything else, so he lets Paulo fold him into his chest. He looses himself in the way Paulo’s neck feels against his forehead, feverish, but still comforting. _I could just stay here, right? _

But Paulo’s fingers are on his stupid, black belt, they’re unbuttoning his jeans. Paulo sniffs when he finds Jan’s soft cock, like Jan’s betrayed him. And absurdly, Jan still wants to please Paulo. He desperately wills himself hard, wills himself to feel the way Paulo’s fingers are wrapped around him, take pleasure in it one last time.

“I’m sorry,” Jan moans into Paulo’s neck. “I don’t think I can right now.” 

“Jan please,” Paulo says, squeezing him gently. But it’s just not going to happen.

“Paulo, stop,” Jan’s voice is harsher than he’d like it to be, and Paulo’s head snaps up. Jan cups his cheek, thumbing away a tear. “I can’t.”

Paulo’s head falls, and Jan watches horrified as he doesn’t pick it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that didn't go according to plan, did it? Here's the big question- who's going to drunk text their ex first?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I had some IRL deadlines. Here's Jan, just trying to cope.

Jan lurches to his feet, head spinning, eyes blurring with tears. 

“Paulo, I have to go,” he says, panicked. “I can’t- I shouldn’t-“

Paulo still doesn’t pick his head up. Jan fumbles with his jeans, praying to some higher entity this is all some horrible, fucked up dream. But his fingers slip on his zipper, and the cold metal teeth cut into the back of his tumb. The sting of pain is too immediate, too real to be a dream. He slides the button into place- it quietly thuds against the fabric, and that’s that. 

“Bye,” he mutters. He pats Paulo’s slumped shoulder awkwardly, and half-walks half-runs out of the house.

His vision is all funny, maybe adrenaline. It makes him stumble down Paulo’s front steps, and lean awkwardly against his own car door. _Fuck, what did I do? What the fuck is wrong with me?_

He rests his forehead against the top of the window for a minute, trying to catch his breath. Jan’s still not sure exactly what just happened. If he squeezes his eyes shut long enough, it’s almost like he’s just driven over from Toby’s house, and he’s just standing here, getting carried away dreaming up ways the conversation could go wrong.

But the second he opens his eyes, the illusion shatters. They’re burning with tears, for one, like he’s been crying for hours. And then there’s how Paulo’s come is spilled all down his black shirt like the ghost of a bloodstain. _Oh God, _he really left Paulo there sitting on the floor like that. Jan wonders if he’s gotten up yet, or whether he’s still crouched there like he’s just been shot. 

He can’t bring himself to look up at the picture windows and check, so he unlocks his car door- the noise makes him jump- and half-falls inside. His hands are shaking so badly he drops his keys into the crack between the seat and the door.

“_FUCK,” _he yells, vision white, voice tearing painfully from his throat. “_JESUS FUCKING-“ _

He slams his palm against the dashboard hard enough to bruise, leans back against the headrest, unable to keep his hoarse shout from dissolving into sobs. Through his tears, Jan thinks he sees the curtain shift, and he looks up, hoping against hope he’ll see Paulo running out out of the house to drag him back inside and make him work this out. But the door stays firmly shut, the house stays silent. 

Jan doesn’t quite remember starting the car, but next thing he knows he’s swerving backward down Paulo’s driveway, narrowly missing the mailbox, and turning clumsily out onto the street. The ride home is a blur. Jan knows he’s driving, knows his hands and feet are doing all the right things. But he watches the London roads fly by like he’s a passenger, only a little voice in the back of his head reminding him to slow down, keep a half an eye on the road. 

He must do alright, because next thing he knows, he’s sitting in his own driveway, inhaling and exhaling slowly, trying to talk himself into taking his white-knuckled hands off the steering wheel. 

_Ok_, he thinks, _you’re going be ok_. He unclenches his left pinky slowly, then his pointer finger. The rest won’t cooperate. He feels numb, like he’s just watching himself sit there in his car in front of his own home or something. He needs someone to tell him what to do. He wrenches his hand from the steering wheel, and grabs his phone.

It knocks the wind out of him, seeing the blank screen of his phone, no missed calls from Paulo. He’s not even sure what he’d been expecting- seventeen missed calls, begging him to come back? He stares at the screen for a minute, then dials Toby.

“Hello?” Toby’s voice coming through the receiver also doesn’t feel real. Jan pulls back and stares at the tiny speaker like it’s lying to him, and Toby’s tinny voice rings out a second time. “Jan?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jan says. The syllables feel foreign and strange, like he’s spitting out seeds caught in his teeth. 

“Are you ok?”

_Am I ok? _Jan wonders. He certainly hadn’t been ok while he was driving home, but right now sitting in his driveway, taking in his own sliver of the world through the windshield of his car, he can’t really be sure. He’s not sure he feels anything at all, actually, just a tiny trickle of panic and dread leaking from some peripheral corner of his mind. Maybe it’s like in the movies, when people slice their fingers off and can’t feel it for hours because of the adrenaline.

“Yeah, I’m ok,” he says.

“Did you talk to Paulo?” Toby asks, so tinny and so, so far away.

“Yeah,” Jan says. He puts his hand on the muscle twitching in his leg.

“How did it go?” Jan vaguely recognizes the voice Toby’s using, the one Jan knows means Toby feels like he’s pulling teeth. 

“Fine,” says Jan, and they fall into silence. Jan doesn’t know why he called. He can’t talk about this right now. Every time he even thinks about it, that tiny trickle threatens to turn into a flood. There’s no way he’s going to be able to unwire his jaw, wet his lips, and use them to form words he can’t even bring himself to call to mind. He’s about to hang up when Toby speaks again.

“Jan, why did you call?“ 

Jan doesn’t say anything, and Toby stays quiet too.

“Never mind,” he says eventually, voice falling back into its regular rhythm. "Hey, Jan, I was about to jump online for a game of Call of Duty. Join me?”

Jan’s so grateful for the way out he nearly starts to cry again. “Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. He can hear the relief in his own voice. It almost makes him sound like himself. “Yeah, I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

It’s good, because now he has a reason to get out of the car, a reason to walk inside his own house. And it will take his mind off things. He pours himself a glass of whiskey, and stands at his kitchen sink, sipping slowly._ Paulo’s gone, it’s over. _Jan’s house is still full of him, his scent, his easy gate and smile, even some of his things. He can feel it everywhere_\- _Paulo, standing at the fridge, filling up a glass of water. Paulo, calling to him from the other room, borrowing words from Jan’s own language. _Come back, schatje, you can finish the dishes later._

_Be right there, cariño. _Under the harsh light of the kitchen, Jan squirms_. _His shirt suddenly feels like a noose, traces of Paulo tightening firm around his neck. He needs to get it off, _now_. He clumsily pulls, cursing quietly when it gets stuck on his head. But finally, he wrestles it off, and chucks it forcefully into the kitchen trash. Bare chest flushed and heaving, he wanders into his office, purposely glancing away from the door to the basement when he passes it.

Jan sits carefully on the edge of his chair, all too aware he’s sharing the silent company of ghosts of his past selves. Like the Jan who sat in this very seat, and shyly googled how to clean a pool table. Or the Jan who sat here researching Argentinian culture in London until his eyes went bloodshot and he had a plan for the best date ever.

_Stop it, _he begs himself. He wraps his fingers around the fuzzy earpieces, and lets the feel of them sliding over his ears pull him out of his memories.

“Hey, are you there?” Toby’s voice crackles in his ear, a lifeline.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, distractedly.

“Ready, Jan?” Toby says. Jan realizes he’s just been sitting there, staring at the main menu.

_“_Yeah, I’m good,” he says. He shakes his head to clear it. _Right, I can do this._

He blinks, slowly, and by the time he’s opened his eyes, Toby’s started the game. _Come on, Jan._ If he can just focus, get in the game, then he won’t have to think about what happened, won’t have to tell Toby anything. He exhales, letting Toby’s voice wash over him. Toby’s gunshots ring in his ears, and Jan desperately wills his mind to go totally, blissfully blank.

“Jan, _Jan, _I need some help here,” Toby yells, cutting into Jan’s concentration. 

Jan doesn’t really know what he needs help with, or where _here _even is. He realizes in his effort to clear his mind, he’s died and respawned at least twice. Toby has to have noticed. He must know something is wrong. Jan tries to get into the game, he really tries. But his mind keeps wandering, and he keeps dying. All he needs is one kill, just one kill and he’ll forget everything-

“_Jan,” _Toby’s increasingly concerned voice cuts through his stupor. “Jan, need you over here now or I’m dead.”

“Yeah ok, be right there,” Jan mumbles. 

_Ah, shit, where am I? _He blinks, willing the screen to make its usual sense. Yeah, maybe he should go help Toby. He trots around aimlessly, but he can’t find Toby, can’t help. 

“Sorry, I can’t- I don’t-“ Jan stutters out.

“Are you ok, Jan?” Toby says, concern heavy in his voice. “Do you want to take a break?”

Jan clutches his controller tighter, frozen. _No_, he doesn’t want to take a break. He wants to find Toby, he wants to help.

Toby’s saying something else now, asking him something, but Jan’s heart is racing, his chest is heaving, he can’t hear.

“Jan, I quit.” Toby’s voice cuts through his haze. _Toby quits,_ _it’s over._

“No, no, _no_, you can’t quit,” Jan says, voice hitching. “I’ll do better next time, I will, I _promise_-” 

“Jan, what?” Toby’s voice is so sharp Jan flinches. It’s not over. It’s ok, he’s ok. He takes a breath, he needs to _tell _Toby, make him see sense.

“_Jan!”_

_“What?”_

“Jan, I quit out,” Toby says. “You’re clearly not ok.”

“No, I’m fine, let’s just-“ Jan feels his chest tighten. He looks at the words on the screen, but they all blur together.

“Jan,” Toby’s voice is so gentle in his ear he’s on the verge of tears.

_“_Hang on a second, I’m-“ he swallows. “I’m-someone’s calling me, I have to-” He jams his finger against the mute button almost before he finishes talking, and his throat clenches painfully. 

“Hey, what’s going on?”

_No, _Jan thinks. He digs his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes, willing himself not to cry.

“Ok,” comes Toby’s voice. “Ok, I don’t know what happened. But uh, whatever it was, I’m here for you,” Toby says, concern thick in his voice. Jan stuffs his knuckles into his mouth to avoid letting out a sob, even though he’s on mute and Toby can’t even hear him.

“I don’t have to tell you that. Just, look,” Toby sighs. “Take care of yourself. You’ll be alright.”

Jan takes a shaky breath, and then another. One more, and it’s a bit easier this time. 

“Jan, are you still there?” Jan presses the mute button warily.

“Yeah,” he breaths. “Yeah.”

“It’s late, why don’t we get some sleep?” Toby says, voice soft and gentle. _That sounds nice, _he thinks.

“Ok,” he says.

“Good night, Jan,” and Toby disconnects with a click, leaving Jan to sit there, face illuminated in the glow of the menu. _I’m going to be ok, _he thinks. _I have Toby, I’m going to go to bed, wake up in the morning, and everything will be ok, _he tells himself. He’s not sure if it’s a directive or a prayer.

But w_hat if I can’t fall asleep? _

Yeah, that’s not something he’s willing to risk right now. He wanders back into his kitchen, grabs the whiskey decanter from where he left it the counter. He pours himself a generous glass, adds an extra shot just to be safe, and drinks it down in one. It’s a lot of whiskey, too much to shoot in one go, and it burns his tongue as he swallows it down. _Good_, he thinks.

The alcohol hits him in the shower, and he has to lean against the wall for a minute to steady himself. He brushes his teeth clumsily, toothpaste spattering all over his sink and dripping down his face. He’s barely got the energy or coordination to wipe it all off before he gets into bed. He’s out like a light as soon as his head hits the pillow, right on schedule at 10:45.

It’s still dark when Jan wakes up, and his head is pounding. He groans. He hasn’t even opened his eyes yet, but he can tell it’s still the middle of the night. It would have been too kind for sleep to let him ignore reality for any longer than a few hours. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to relax his jaw, desperate to fall back to sleep, and for a minute, he thinks it’s going to work.

He’s drifting off, floating towards the ceiling in a turquoise haze, pools of green-blue easing the pounding in his head and the itchy dryness of his tongue. The sun is warm on his face, grass is soft under his back. He smiles, sleepily. _I’ll just check my phone and see if Paulo texted goodnight, _he thinks. 

And suddenly he’s wide awake. Of course Paulo won’t have texted. Jan and Paulo are over. Absurdly, he hears Pochettino’s voice echo in his head like some kind of fever dream, words he’s never even said. _Time of death, _it says. _Fuck, what time is it? _

It takes him a minute to work up the courage to roll over and look at the clock. And when he does, it’s even wore than he realizes. It’s just shy of three in the morning, and Jan’s sitting here in the dark, semi-hungover, with all the reality in the world bearing down on him.

_Jan and Paulo are over. _Waves of guilt and remorse crash over him and he falls back to the bed, phone lying silent on his chest. He’s not even sure how it happened. He chews over Paulo’s words until they don’t make any sense. He second guesses himself until he’s not even sure anything was ever real. Like why couldn’t he have just opened up to Paulo when he wanted? _If you love me, why can’t you-_ Paulo hadn’t been able to finish asking Jan the question. If he had, Jan wouldn’t have been able to answer. He doesn’t _know_ why, he just knows that he’d needed a little patience from Paulo. And now, he knows Paulo hadn’t been able to give it. 

He doesn’t understand that, either. Why was Paulo was so unwilling to give him a little space? Well, he kind of understands. Jan had thought about ending it for similar reasons, even talked it through with Toby. But he’d ultimately decided to hunker down and work things out. He had, right? 

Jan’s struck by the unfairness of it all. He’d driven to Paulo’s house, intent on finally laying himself bare. He hadn’t expected the things he shared would make Paulo want to end their entire relationship. _Maybe you did know, _whispers a tiny, cruel voice in the back of his mind._ Maybe that’s why you didn’t tell him_. And yeah, deep down inside, maybe he always knew his flaws would be too much work. Always knew Paulo would give up on him some day. 

_It just all happened so fast, _he pleads with that small, nasty voice. Jan might struggle with communication, he might be out of touch with most of his emotions, but he actually hadn’t expected the end to come so quickly. _Surely it can’t really be over._ He must have misremembered. And now that Jan thinks about it, he’s pretty sure they never actually said the words “_it’s over.”_

_No, but we heavily implied them, _says the little voice. But there’s that tiny, sliver of a chance. The one Jan doesn’t even dare hope for, that won’t leave him alone. He has to know. Jan picks up his phone. He types clumsily, screen burning white rectangles into the backs of his eyes. 

_Are we over?_  
****

He’s not going to send it, but sitting there, in the dark, feeling like he’s just died, feeling more alone than he’s ever felt in his entire life, he realizes he has nothing to lose. Jan hits send.

He waits with bated breath, certain he’s going to see those three little dots appear any minute now. Paulo will say, “no, we’re not over, I still want to try.”

But the three dots never appear. His screen dims, and eventually goes black. When he checks his phone for what must be the seventieth time, Paulo still hasn’t responded. Of course he hasn’t. It’s three in the fucking morning. Jan desperately wants the satisfaction of shutting off his phone, but he can’t. He needs to wake up for training in the morning, and he needs the alarm. He sets it back on his bedside table and returns to staring at the ceiling.

He must fall back to sleep eventually, because next thing Jan knows, there’s light streaming in through his curtains, and warm arms sliding around him, holding him tight.

“Paulo,” he breaths. Paulo presses his lips the back of his neck.

“I’m here, Jan,” Paulo hums behind him, tightening his grip.

“God, I missed you so much, Paulo,” Jan whispers. “I thought-“ 

Jan’s so overwhelmed with relief, he can’t speak. He’s running his fingers up and down Paulo’s arm, and even feeling those little hairs- he’d thought it was over, thought he’d never feel Paulo’s forearms flex under the pads of his fingers, thought he’d never feel safe and cared for like this again.

“I got your text,” Paulo says. His chest rumbles against Jan’s back, and Jan sighs. “It’s not over, we’ll work it out.” 

Jan reaches up and touches his own cheeks, realizes they’re damp. _God, he’d really thought-_

“Turn around and kiss me, schatje,” Paulo says. 

And Jan does, how could he not? It’s a wet kiss, Paulo’s lips tender and careful, his thumbs trailing through the tear tracks on Jan’s cheeks. 

“Oh, Jan,” Paulo sighs, between kisses. “I love you.”

_I love you. _Jan breaths him in. Kisses down Paulo’s neck and sinks his teeth into his collar bone. Paulo’s hands tighten around his waist, and his dick swells to hardness against Jan’s stomach.

_I love you, _Paulo whispers into his ear. Heat pools quickly, sweetly between his own legs. He pulls Jan forward, nudging his big thigh up against Jan’s erection. _Oh God_, this is going to be over so fast.

_I love you. _He bites his cheek, tries to hold back, but Paulo’s thigh is so warm, and he’s already throbbing. Paulo nudges him again, then leans forward and kisses Jan once on the forehead. 

_I love you. _Jan comes achingly, crying out, bucking against Paulo’s leg, ghost of his hands threaded through Jan’s hair.

When finally comes down, the room is bright around him, and Jan’s happy. He opens his eyes. Little specks of dust swirl in the morning light that’s pooling in the empty bed next to him. The _empty _bed next to him.

_Oh._

Paulo’s not here. Jan’s lying in the sunlit sheets alone, come sticky between his thighs. _No. _It can’t have been a dream, it felt so real. Jan closes his eyes few moments, desperate to slip back into the world where he’s wrapped up in Paulo’s gentle arms, and they’re ready to work it all out. 

But then his alarm goes off, and Jan’s startled alert. He grabs his phone, and his heart sinks into his stomach. Paulo still hasn’t texted him back. He’s exhausted, and dehydrated, and it’s really, truly over. Another day, he might have stayed in bed. Just called in sick, taken a couple pills, gone back to sleep. But there’s come drying on his legs and a twisted promise hanging over his head- if he goes into work, for better or for worse, he’ll see Paulo. Even now, the thought makes his heart do a little flip flop.

Jan cleans himself off shamefully, angry at his traitorous brain for producing a dream like that. So real, so close, but so far away. Jan goes through the motions dejectedly- drags the soiled sheets off his bed, pulls on his clothes. He makes his oatmeal, adds yogurt and peaches like he usually does. But he doesn’t really want to eat. The peaches taste like nothing, just slimy pieces with patches of rough, and absolutely not like anything that should be remotely near his mouth. He runs to the sink and coughs them into the disposal. 

He tries to take a few more bites of oats, moves them around slowly in his mouth. But it’s not working. He remembers the slimy, half-chewed peaches disappearing into the sink, and wonders if it would be grosser to swallow the oats or spit them out. He ends up swallowing the two bites he took, and dumping the rest in the wastebin. He can’t sit in this house for any longer. He’s going to be early, and but he needs to leave, now. Anywhere is better than here, in his house, with his silent phone and memories of Paulo padding down his stairs, sitting at his kitchen table, asking him which car he wants to take. 

Jan has to force more images of Paulo out of head when he gets to his car- sliding into the passenger seat, sliding his hand across to cover Jan’s on the leather stick shift. He shakes his head, and turns the key. He turns Spotify on, picks some upbeat, poppy playlist he made a lifetime ago. Jan hasn’t dealt with a break up in something like seven years, and he doesn’t really know what else to do. The music does little to banish Paulo from the car, or even lift his spirits, but at least he feels like he’s trying.

But then Jan gets stuck at a red light and in the silence that falls throughout his stopped car, the song that's playing hits him like a ton of bricks.

_Toi et moi, c’était jusqu’à la muerte._

_No_, Jan thinks. His eyes well up and his throat tightens painfully. He jabs at the dashboard, desperate to stop the song, and hits the air conditioning instead.

_Jusqu’à la muerte,_

_Until death. _Fuck_, _he’d never said it out loud, never even admitted it to himself, but he really did think things Paulo would be forever. There’s cold air blasting in his face, and he can barely see the double yellow line. He has to pull over, _right now_. Blindly, he swings into an empty parking lot on his right and slams on the breaks.

_T’étais ma moitié._

_My partner, _Jan thinks. _You were supposed to be my partner. _It's stupid, because Jan's pretty sure this song isn't even about love; it's about a drug conviction. But that doesn't soften the blow of the words at all. He rests his head on the steering wheel and tries to take deep breaths. Eventually, his chest stops heaving. His head is still swimming a bit, and his ears are still ringing. But it’s close enough. He puts the car in drive and swings out of the parking lot. 

He feels like he’s driving with someone else’s hands. He’s not Jan Vertonghen. He’s just some random guy, sent to live in Jan’s body while Jan takes a holiday from reality. Whoever it is, they’re only barely capable of driving. How he’s going to survive the day like this, he has no idea. It’s an injury waiting to happen, Jan just knows it. 

Before he knows it, he reaches the training grounds. Toby appears at his window as soon as he finishes clumsily parking his car.

“He beat you here,” Toby explains.

“What?” Jan’s bewildered. “Did he- how did he look? What did he-“ He didn’t realize how hoarse his voice sounded until he spoke out loud. Toby does a little double take when he starts speaking, and gives him the once-over. _People can see me? _Jan wonders.

“You… don’t look good, Jan,” Toby says carefully. Jan can tell he’s trying to force kindness into his voice to mask the accusation, _you stayed up all night, you’ve been crying_, but that part still comes through just fine. He hangs his head.

“Jesus. Right,” Toby glances over his shoulder. “You’re going in there right now. Straight to Pochettino’s office. You’ll tell him something’s come up in your personal life, but you don’t want to talk about it. You’re not training today. You’ll die.”

And that’s that. Toby drags Jan out of his car and marches him inside. His sandals slap against his feet and echo around the hall. _It’s a funeral beat._

“No, it’s not, Jan,” Toby hisses, and Jan realizes he’d been speaking out loud. Toby grabs him by the elbow, and drags him the last few steps down the hall. He shoves him in through the door with a sympathetic pat.

Pochettino’s actually looking at him today, which is already an improvement. Jan wonders if he already knows, _what _he already knows. Or maybe he can just see it written all over Jan’s face.

“Super Jan,” Pochettino says, mouth twitching up at the corners. “Why don’t you sit in my seat today?”

Oh, god, he must look terrible if Pochettino’s calling him Super Jan and letting him sit in his seat. He never gets to sit at Pochettino’s desk. That’s reserved for good boys, like one of the Harrys. It’s just a passing thought, though. He can’t really bring himself to care. Numbly, he walks around the side of the deep brown desk and takes a seat.

“Do you need some water, Jan?” 

He nods, suddenly aware how dry his mouth is. Pochettino reaches underneath a shelf, takes out a bottle of water, and slides it across the table to Jan. He gulps down half of it, and absently wonders how many people had to cry in this office before he started keeping a stash of water bottles. 

On the wrong side of the desk, Pochettino surveys him through his bifocals.

“Tell me, Jan,” he says, once it becomes clear Jan’s not going to start to speak on his own. Jan desperately tries to remember the words Toby told him to say. 

“Something,” Jan starts. _God, _his voice is hoarse. “Something’s come up in my personal life.”

Pochettino nods encouragingly.

“Something unexpected. I’m-,” he tries. “It’s-“

Pochettino waits for a while, but Jan can’t get out anymore without risking crying. “Jan, are you ok?”

He swallows several times, until it hurts, then takes a few more sips of water.

“No,” he says. “I’m not.” 

Pochettino doesn’t say anything at first. He waits until Jan tears his eyes away from the trim on the cherry desk.

“You’re very brave, Jan,” he says. Jan shakes his head wetly.

“Very brave,” Pochettino repeats. “You are. I can see how you’re hurting. But you came here, you told me.” 

Jan’s fighting to maintain eye contact, even though he desperately wants to hang his head and let the tears fall. 

“We will help, of course,” Pochettino says, surveying Jan kindly. “Anything you need. For now, you will go home. You can’t train at the moment.” 

“But-“ Jan starts. He _has_ to train, it’s his only chance to get back in the team. His only chance to see Paulo

“You’re in no condition to train, Jan, you know this,” Jan nods begrudgingly. 

“Toby will take you home. You know, we have resources for, but not yet. Now, you need your friend.”

“Okay,” says Jan. Pochettino stands, moves around the side of the desk. Jan tenses up, unsure whether he can handle human contact right now. _Don’t hug me, _Jan thinks. _I’ll burst. _Pochettino seems to hear his silent plea, and instead holds out a hand for Jan shake. 

“Take care of yourself, Super Jan,” he says, sternly. “I expect you back in training tomorrow.”

Jan grasps his hand, shakes it haltingly, then stumbles blindly past Pochettino and out of the room. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jan gets by with a little help from his friends, and a lot of alcohol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Write an angsty fic about Spurs players," she said. "It will be fun," she said. Stay tuned for chapters covering Colchester, Leicester, Bayern, Brighton, and Watford 😃

Toby’s waiting for him outside the door to Pochettino’s office, and Jan grabs him by the arm to steady himself.

“Take me to your house,” he mumbles, staring at the floor. He sees Toby’s curt nod out of the corner of his eye.

On the way back to the carpark, Jan cranes his neck around every corner, desperate for even the slightest glimpse of Paulo. 

“He’s in the gym,” says Toby, pulling him by the wrist. Jan is near certain he’d caught a flash of Paulo’s shiny, black hair disappearing through a door at the other end of the hallway. But he lets Toby turn him away and guide him toward the exit.

Toby’s car smells familiar, and for the most part, he just drives and lets Jan stare out the window, stewing in his own discontent. It’s only when it starts to drizzle that Toby breaks the silence.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” says Toby, flicking on his windshield wipers.

“I’m not really sure,” Jan says, chewing his lip. “I’m not really sure what happened, I’m not really sure if I want to talk about it.”

“That’s ok,” Toby says. “Take your time.” He reaches over and gives Jan’s knee a single squeeze. Jan just goes back to staring out the window.

Jan’s relieved to see the familiar bushes of Toby’s yard. He meets Toby’s eye briefly in a silent _thank you_.

Jan watches numbly as Toby unlocks the door, ignorant to the damp mist frizzing his hair and crawling under his jacket. He takes a few tentative steps, slowly comes to a halt, frozen in Toby’s foyer.

“What can I get you?” Toby says.

“Water?” His deep voice echoes around Jan’s empty mind.

Jan shakes his head, takes a couple steps toward the couch.

“Do you want to sleep?” Toby asks.

“Yeah,” Jan mutters, nodding his head gratefully. 

_I love you, _Paulo whispers in his ear. 

“No, wait,” Jan says, more forcefully than he means. The strength in his voice surprises him almost as much as it seems to surprise Toby. 

“Sorry,” he says, withdrawing his hand and smoothing it through his limp hair. “I just don’t want to sleep. I just,” he swallows. 

“Just distract me.”

“You got it, champ,” says Toby, clapping him cavalierly on the shoulder in a manner that feels totally foreign to Jan’s mood.

Jan stands in the doorway awkwardly while Toby sets him up in his living room. Jan’s overcome with a gratitude beyond words as he watches Toby flit around matter-of-factly. Glass of water on the table, reheated sandwiches on one of Toby’s blue and white kitchen plates, blanket curled around Jan’s shoulders. Toby rolls his eyes fondly as he opens up Youtube on his widescreen TV, types out _tour de france 2019._

“I need to go back to Enfield,” he says apologetically. He stands.

“It’s ok, I’ll be fine here.” He gestures toward Toby’s carefully constructed blanket nest. 

“You should sit,” Toby says.

“You should go,” Jan returns.

Toby does, and Jan makes his way to the couch, crawls underneath the mess of blankets, and wraps them with around his chin. Jan stays there all day, eyes glazed over staring at the screen. He watches race after race, interview after interview. He’s so numb he doesn’t bother reacting when he starts to get repeats. He watches all the same interviews over again anyway, and tries not to think about the kinder times when he’d watched these curled up on Paulo’s chest. 

He doesn’t even notice when hours later, Toby returns. And he barely jumps when Toby speaks.

“Oh, good, you ate,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Jan mumbles. He’d managed to choke down nearly two of the sandwiches Toby left, although they’d churn uncomfortably in his stomach. Still, at least he’d fed himself. 

“You can stay here, if you want,” Toby says. “Shani’s out of town. I’m about to order dinner. And there’s the guest room.”

“Ok,” he says, gratefully. Embarrassingly, he had forgotten about Toby’s wife, and never even considered returning home.

Toby settles in next to him, and changes the channel. It’s Dancing With the Stars, the version with Dries’ wife. Jan hates reality television on principle, but the show is innocuous enough, so he doesn’t complain. 

He thinks about telling Toby what happened. He’s definitely spent more than enough time in his own head, and he’s starting to wish he had a second opinion, a voice of reason. But the words get stuck in his throat, threaten to cripple him from the inside. He doesn’t want to talk about Paulo, doesn’t want to relive that horrible scene from Paulo’s living room. He wishes Toby would just ask him, even though Jan already knows he won’t. 

Eventually, the food arrives, and that almost brings Jan to his knees again, too. Toby had made certain to get Jan’s favorite, Ma Po Tofu. His eyes well up briefly at Toby’s thoughtfulness. Jan honestly feels so retched at the moment he’s astounded anyone would do anything nice for him. But he pulls himself together. He still doesn’t really have an appetite, but he’s too polite to ignore food someone’s ordered specifically for him.

It’s only when he stands up later that he realizes how much he needed a full meal. His head is clearer, and his limbs feel sturdier. He feels like there’s actually a chance he’s going to get through this. 

Toby’s set out everything Jan could imagine needing in the bedroom as well. Clothes to sleep in, toothbrush and toothpaste. A glass of water and two tiny white pills, which Jan assumes are to help him get to sleep. There’s even a little bottle of hair gel, as if Jan’s going to want to appear presentable for some unknown reason. Jan’s heart swells. Toby’s a good friend, and some day when he doesn’t feel like curling up in a hole to die, Jan will have to do something special for him. 

Toby pokes his head in the door once Jan’s settled in for the night.

“Do you have everything you need?”

“Yeah,” says Jan, suddenly emotional. “Yeah, more than everything, Toby, thank you.”

“No need to thank me,” he says. “I know you’d do it for me.”

“I hope I never have to,” Jan says. Toby’s lips hint at a smile, and he takes a few steps toward the door.

“Wait, don’t go,” Jan says. Toby hovers at the side of the bed.

“I know what I said, but I didn’t want to end it,” Jan says. His voice catches, and fat tears pool at the corners of his eyes. “I didn’t- I didn’t want it to. I didn’t mean-“ 

Toby’s eyes are wide, caring. Jan coughs wetly. “Sorry,” he apologizes. Toby briefly shakes his head, _don’t apologize. _

“I told him that- you know, what I said, before,” Jan says. “About Villa. I said I just- I don’t really know what I said wrong- why he didn’t want to- it,” Jan breaks off, swallowing. “It all happened so fast.”

“What did he say?” 

“That he needed more. I said I couldn’t. And that wasn’t good enough for him,” Jan says, sliding down into the sheets. “Whatever I had to give, it wasn’t enough.”

Toby stares at him with sad eyes. This is one of those times Jan hates Toby’s taciturn nature. Any other friend would say something, the obvious thing. _It’s his loss, Jan_. _He’s an idiot. Fuck him. _But Toby stays annoyingly silent. It’s not his brand of comfort to offer meaningless platitudes, no matter how much Jan wants him to. 

Instead, he slides the little white pills and the glass of water across Toby’s bedside table.

“Take the pills, Jan,” Toby says. And that’s all he’s going to get out of Toby, so he does.

Jan sleeps through the night, but his dreams are full of Paulo’s shiny, black hair, a hundred meters away, disappearing around the corner. He wants to call out, but he can never find his voice. He wants to run, but his feet are glued to the ground, tiles wound around his ankles like absurd terra-cotta vines.

When he wakes, it feels like someone cut a hole in the center of his chest, snapped his ribs one by one and scooped out his heart, then filled it halfway in with cement and walked away. The first day without Paulo had lasted a lifetime, it seemed. And for what? Now he just has to do it all again. 

Knowing that, it takes him ages to drag himself out of bed. He almost stays there, head beneath the pillows. But someone would definitely come check up on him. Pochettino already knows he’s not sick, so he’d be caught, super Jan Vertonghen, hiding under his covers like a child.

Someone once told him it takes three days to quit an addiction cold turkey. Paulo’s no more than an addiction, right? From the way his skin feels, to the way he says Jan’s name. _I just need to make it to the third day_, Jan tells himself. He can’t begin to let himself hope Paulo will come back, so that’s pretty much all he has to hold on to right now.

With a horrible thrill, Jan realizes that no matter how it shakes out, he’s bound to run into Paulo today. Even if it’s just a passing glance across a rondo. He stares at his pale, drawn face in the mirror for ages, and it suddenly occurs to him why Toby might have left him that tiny bottle of hair gel. He uncorks it and uses a generous amount, spends ages combing it into place. When he’s done, he shaves his face for good measure. It feels better, somehow. Like maybe he’d gotten rid of a part of himself that had touched Paulo.

He makes his oats in Toby’s kitchen, chews on the food without really tasting it. It takes him a while, but he remembers how much better he felt after dinner the previous night, and forces himself to finish eating. _This is your job_, he tells himself. _It’s your job to fuel your body. You need to eat the food or else it’ll be so much worse._

When Jan gets into the car, Toby’s eyes linger, but doesn’t say a word about his neat part and slicked-back hair, his cleanly-shaven face. Jan knows he looks more done up than he usually does for game days, but if that’s what gets him through, that’s what gets him through. 

Pochettino, to his credit, doesn’t do so much as a double take when he and Toby run into him in the entrance.

“Super Jan, how are you?” says Pochettino. The kindly look on his face almost breaks Jan. But he got out of bed, he got this far, he’s going to get through training even if it takes everything he has.

“Ready,” he says, eventually. “Ready to train.” Pochettino nods once in approval and moves on. He appreciates it, Poch’s taciturn approach. He knows Pochettino is a man of feelings, but at least Poch seems to know when he does and doesn’t want to share. _If only Paulo were the same_, says the voice in the back of his head. 

He makes his way to the locker room slowly. He’s still not one hundred percent sure what’s going to happen when he sees Paulo. Part of him desperately doesn’t want to, so much so he even considers calling after Poch, telling him, telling _anyone, _what happened. While he dresses himself for training, he thinks about begging to be let out of drills, kept apart from the tall, dark goalkeeper he knows so intimately. 

But he’s absolutely not going to do that. It would mean admitting their relationship, for one, something they’d never even talked about doing. For another, it would mean admitting weakness. Most of all, it’s a much louder, much more sentimental part of Jan that keeps him from opening his mouth. It’s the part that just wants to see Paulo’s beautiful face, stare into his swimming pool eyes, make sure he knows that Jan loves him completely, desperately…

“Hey,” says a deep voice. Jan jumps, whips his head around like it’s on a string, right into the locker. There’s a sudden, stinging numbness under his eye where it struck. 

_Fuck, my eye._

“Jan, are you ok?” It’s not even Paulo, it’s just Eriksen. Jan hangs his head in shame, tears streaming out from under his hand.

“Yeah,” Jan says, blinking his eye cautiously. “Yeah I’m fine. You startled me.”

“I just came over to say, I heard what happened,” Eriksen says, lowering his voice. 

“Toby told you,” Jan grumbles.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “If you need anything, you know, other than a blow to the eye, you can call me.”

_If you need anything, you call me. _Jan stares at Eriksen’s easy, wry smile, speechless.

“Jan? Are you sure you’re ok?” he says, typically flat voice lilting with concern. Jan unsticks his jaw.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Hey, thanks Chris,” Jan says, touching his eye gingerly as Chris trots away. It comes away dry, so at least he’s not bleeding. But he knows without even looking in the mirror it’s going to be a shiner. 

_Figures, _he thinks. _All that time on my appearance and I clock myself in the face._

Jan steels himself, and jogs out the door towards the training pitches. The goalkeepers are nowhere to be seen.

“They’re inside today,” Toby says, with a nudge. Jan thanks his lucky stars. Training is fine. He can feel his eye throbbing the whole time, can tell everyone’s staring at him. But he gets through it, and he even thinks he sees Pochettino give him the nod of approval before he heads inside. 

His hopeful mood doesn’t last long, though. He’s just grabbed a tray of food- pink salmon, sat appetizingly across a bed of quinoa dotted with vegetables. Jan’s actually looking forward to eating, turning toward the canteen, starting to scan the room for Toby, when his elbow knocks into something solid.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jan sees a small carton of orange juice spiral through the air and land on the floor, mercifully unbroken. Jan breathes a sigh of relief, until he looks around and sees that juice, and the arm he’d just bumped, belong to Erik Lamela.

“H-hey,” Jan forces out. Lamela looks away awkwardly, motionless as his eyes dart to the carton of juice askew on the floor.

“Oh, please,” Jan spits. “I’m thirty-two years old, and you’re- however old you are. You aren’t going to ignore me like we’re in primary school.”

Lamela looks up at him with sad, pleading eyes. “Sorry, man, it’s just weird, you know?”

“Oh yeah,” Jan says, rolling his eyes, “I know.”

He nods for a minute, looking contemplative. “We can still talk, it’s not like he hates you or anything.”

“Why would he-“ Jan sputters. It occurs to him once again he has _no idea _what’s going on inside Paulo’s head, how’s doing, how he feels about what happened. “I mean-“

“I’m sorry,” Lamela says, taking his tray and backing up. “I didn’t mean-“

“Yeah, no, it’s ok, I understand,” Jan turns back to the counter and grabs a bowl of rice he knows he’s not going to eat. “See you around.”

Jan can feel the panic rising in his chest by the time he walks across the room, sets his tray next to Toby’s. He’s looking around every few feet, trying to be surreptitious in checking whether Paulo’s here yet, but he’s sure it’s obvious as hell. There’s no flash of dark hair or turquoise eyes though, so he’s pretty sure he’s safe.

“Hey man,” Toby says, when Jan slides into his seat. “You forget to breath?”

Yeah, he did, Jan realizes, and lets out a long exhale. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Ran into Lamela.”

“Ah.” 

He gets through his meal as best he can. He chews quickly, swallows hard, anything to stop each bite of the once appetizing food sticking on the way down. He doesn’t pick up his head once, not even to wave hello to Dier when he joins them. He thinks he hears Toby mutter something in Eric’s ear, but he doesn’t question that either.

He pushes his chair back quickly, dying to rid himself of his tray and get out of there. He mutters a hasty excuse to Toby, who of course looks concerned. Jan spins around, and suddenly, he’s face to face with Paulo, and it knocks the wind out of him, even harder than when he’d whacked his face on the locker in front of Eriksen. 

“Jan,” Paulo says, eyes fixed on Jan’s bruised lid. “Are you ok?”

Those _would _be the first words, and between his puffy eye, running into Lamela, and now this, he’s had enough. 

“What’s it to you?” Jan says, folding his arms across his chest. 

“I just want to make sure you’re ok, Jan,” Paulo sighs, tiredly. _Has he been sleeping?_

“Yeah,” Jan says, eyes fixed on his tray. “I’m fine.”

He means to turn and walk away. He really does. But he looks up right before he does, and once he fixes his eyes on Paulo’s he can’t turn away. His skin has a sunken, waxy quality Jan’s sure he’s never seen before, not even after the Champions League final. There are bags under his eyes, nothing like Jan’s of course, and a crease in his forehead so deep Jan has to dig his fingernails into his palm so he doesn’t reach up to smooth it out. 

Paulo cocks his head to the right and pokes his bottom lip out ever so slightly.

“Jan,” he says, so low Jan can feel it rattling around his chest. He’s drowning, every second he spends on Paulo’s eyes is a second he’s not breathing, and it’s only when someone taps him on the shoulder that he tears himself away.

“Afternoon Paulo,” says Toby stiffly, but not unkindly. “Alright?”

“Yeah,” Paulo says, voice a bit coarser than it was moments before. “I’m alright.” 

And without a backward glance, he turns away from Jan and walks decisively toward the door. That’s the last time he sees Paulo all day. He’s still shaken when he gets out of the shower, hours later. He must look it, because Toby’s waiting for him after training. Unquestioningly, without so much as a word, Toby brings him home.

Jan feels a bit better when he wakes up on the third day, and he feels like a whole new person when he wakes up on the fourth. Maybe there’s something in that stupid addiction theory. Or maybe he just has great friends. Toby and Eriksen had both gone out of their way to spend time with him, make sure he was eating. Even Dier had even invited him to a pub quiz. He hadn’t gone, but it was the thought that had counted. It helps that Jan barely sees Paulo at all, so little that he starts to wonder if maybe someone at the club does know what’s going on.

His strength and stamina come back, too. He knows Pochettino won’t play him against Newcastle, save some sort of disaster, but he feels alright about it. It’s not just the break up- it’s that first day, the one Jan barely ate. If he steps on the field, there’s a chance he might shatter, physically and emotionally. 

Even so, Jan’s looking forward to the game. He’s fairly sure it will be a win, and dead certain it will be a distraction. His eye has faded, and all that’s left is the barest hint of a bruise. Unless he’s in the right light, he’s pretty sure no one will notice. 

But when he arrives at the stadium, he rounds the corners to face the press and realizes he’s dead wrong. Jan might not be able to see it in his dimly lit kitchen, checking himself out in his front-facing camera. But in the harsh camera lights, the stadium lights, the bruise blooms as fresh as it did on day one. He can see them all staring, watch as their lenses snap, capturing a mark he’d thought was hidden.

As if there weren’t already enough speculation about Jan, his lost place on the team, his future, now he has to walk out there, in front of 63,000 people and countless television viewers, and let them speculate about the big ugly bruise under his eye.

_You can’t fuck with me, _Jan thinks, as he steps into the roar of the stadium, and again as he takes his seat on the bench. It’s almost like he can hear what they’re saying.

_What’s wrong with him?_

_Vertonghen’s been in a bar fight, eh?_

_Nah, heard it was Harry Kane who decked him._

_Jan, are you ok?_

But then the whistle goes, and as he so desperately wanted, Jan gets carried away watching the action of the game.

Of course they lose. Nothing’s going Jan’s way right now, so why would football cooperate? Hechanges back into his street clothes and lingers in the hallway, thinking about heading out into the mixed zone, wondering if he can handle questions about his eye.

“Jan,” says a pair of voices behind him. He spins around.

“Woah, who pissed in your coffee?” That’s Dele, smirk playing on his lips. Winksy’s standing next to him, mischievous look on his face.

“You’ve been down,” Winsky says. 

“I-“

“Don’t deny it, everyone’s noticed,” Dele says, rolling his eyes. 

“We thought we could take you out, cheer you up,” Harry says, excitedly.

“I’m not sure losing 1-0 to Newcastle is the best occasion,” Jan says, slowly. 

“It’s the perfect occasion. No one’s going to talk,” says Dele. 

Jan sighs. He doesn’t _really_ want to do this. He’d love to go home, curl up in his bed, and sleep for fourteen hours. Besides, pretty much everyone else he knows would think this was a horrible idea. But honestly, his bed still reminds him of Paulo, and he’s felt awful all week. Nothing he’s tried has worked. And Harry and Dele’s concern? It’s oddly touching, in a way Toby’s isn’t. Like they don’t think they’re his parents.

So Jan nods, and lets Harry and Dele lead him into the back of a car. They take him to the kind of club Jan used to frequent during his first couple years in London. It’s dark, and everything Jan can see is neon. He doesn’t even remember last time he’d been in a place like this, _years ago, _or certainly under the influence of a great deal of alcohol.

Harry returns from the bar with a waiter carrying a bucket of ice and several bottles of vodka. 

“Uh,” Jan mumbles. “Vodka soda for me.”

It’s awkward at first, Dele pushing drink after drink into his hand. He’s already tiring of the vodka. _Bring me whiskey on the rocks next time. _Harry, disappearing into the bathroom. Dele, introducing Jan to girls who are ten years younger than him, hopefully no more. Harry, returning from the bathroom with a buzz in his eye and an extra kick in his step. _God, was I ever that obvious? _wonders Jan. He takes another drink from Dele. He’s lost count.

Jan finishes the drink, staring idly at Harry. He’s got a girl wrapped around him now. Her long, brown hair is sticking to his beard, and Jan can’t even see where her hands are.

“Are you ok, Jan?” Dele says, sliding into the leather seat next to him.

Jan just shrugs. He’s drunk, but he’s not that drunk. 

“I don’t think he’d fault me for spilling the beans now, but Eric told me about you and Paulo,” Dele says, hesitantly. Jan might have cared once upon a time, but right now, all he can bring himself to do is stare into the dregs of his whiskey.

“Yeah,” Jan mumbles. “I kind of figured.”

“Did you two fight?” Dele asks, uncharacteristically gently.

“It’s over,” Jan says bitterly. “I couldn’t give Paulo what he needed.”

“Hey, hey,” Dele says. “Paulo’s an idiot if he thinks you’re not it.” 

The familiar bravado has slipped back into Dele’s voice. Jan thinks he’s way too coherent for the number of drinks he’s downed.

“You think?”

“Yeah, I do,” Dele says. “Me, Eric, Winksy, we all look up to you. Fuck, most of the team. Can’t imagine anyone thinking differently.”

Jan’s oddly choked up at that, too drunk to formulate a response. He grabs a drink from the table that’s not his, and downs a few sips.

“He’ll come around,” Dele says. “And if he doesn’t, fuck him.” 

“Yeah, fuck him,” Jan agrees, tossing a cocktail straw back onto the table.

“That’s more like it,” Dele chuckles. “Go on, Jan, have a dance. Find someone new.”

Jan’s hands are sweating, but Dele’s nodding at the dance floor. And his version of Jan is just so appealing. 

Things are a bit of a blur after that. There are people, _colors.._swirling around him. Jan doesn’t want to keep dancing. He doesn’t, but Dele’s words echo in his head. _Have a dance. _Jan rolls his shoulders back and shifts his hips. _Find someone new._

He wonders what Dele might consider an acceptable time to leave. One in the morning. Two? Four? Whenever Jan finds someone new?

He checks his watch. It’s only 1:15, or at least Jan thinks it is. He’s spinning, _spinning._

_Fifteen more minutes._

There’s blonde hair in his face, bright skin and pink lips stretched tight. _Hello, do you want to dance?_

Jan doesn’t know. 

It’s a girl, soft and petite, hair so long and blonde. Chest exposed and perky. Jan’s drunk. He can’t help but stare. Once upon a time, he would have. Once upon a time he’d had his pick of girls like this. He knows he shouldn’t, but he reaches out and pulls her in by the hips.

She smells nice. _All that hair. _She feels good. And she’s whispering in his ear. _Where are you from?_

An odd question. _She doesn’t know who I am, _he thinks. She laughs. And she’s running her hands up his back, dipping under his collar, winding into his hair. She pulls. _Hard. _And Jan moans. _I didn’t know Jan Vertonghen made noises like that. _

Jan pulls back, mouth agape. 

“What?” he says.

“I said, are you ok?” Jan shakes his head, to clear it. 

“Oh,” her face falls, and she reaches steady hands out to grab her elbows. “Can I get you something? Water? Are your friends here?”

“I need-“ Jan stops, thinking. He needs Paulo. “I need-“

She’s looking at him expectantly, concern written all over her careful features. Something in her expression reminds him of Paulo. Like this girl would fly him to the moon if he asked. Not because she loves him, but just because he asked.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Don’t want to ruin your night. I’ll just…”

Jan turns, lurches forward through the crowd. He doesn’t reach the wall so much as he stumbles into it, then rolls sideways through the bathroom door. He leans against the full length mirror, forehead sweaty enough to leave a mark, chest heaving, breath coming out in quick little puffs on the glass.

_He shouldn’t text Paulo right now, he really shouldn’t. _Maybe just to see if he’s out. But it’s a game night, and they’d lost to Newcastle. He knows Paulo isn’t out. Still…

“Jan?” 

Someone’s calling him. It could be the girl. He’ll have to tell her, tell her he can’t…

“I’m seeing someone,” Jan mumbles, even though he’s not.

“Jan!” Tan hands grab him by the shoulders and shake him. It’s not the girl, it’s Dele. A wave of nausea rolls through him, and the room tips on its side.

“I really think I need to leave,” Jan mumbles. His head is spinning, and he can barely see Dele next to him. 

“I’ll call you a cab,” Dele says, eyes full of kindness.

“You really don’t need to do that, I-“ Dele cuts him off sharply with a sharper look.

“I’ll call you a cab.” 

Jan doesn’t remember getting in the cab. He doesn’t remember telling it where to go. He remembers calling Toby, phone wedged sloppily between his sweaty cheek, his shaking hand, and the window. 

“Hey Toby, it’s Jan,” he slurs into the phone.

“Ah, Jan. Drunk. I suppose I’m about to find out where you went after the game.”

“I’m in a cab,” Jan says. “Can I come over?”

“Sure, Jan, whatever you need.” Jan disconnects the call with a click.

He knows he stumbled through Toby’s doorway. Knows Toby looked at him through disapproving eyes. He doesn’t actually remember that part, but he knows Toby well enough to know what happened. 

Next thing he knows, he’s standing on the stairs, leaning heavily on the wall, and Toby’s telling him off

“I know you broke up, but don’t be a dick about it.”

“What? I’m nottttt-“ Jan slurs his protest, and Toby puts him out of his misery.

“You are. You said it was mutual, and now you’re making it seem like Paulo was the one who ended things”

Yeah, it kind of was, and he kind of is. Jan can’t argue with that.

“And look,” Toby continues. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. But the day after? Paulo got here early. He looked terrible.” Jan’s heart swells at that, and he tries his hardest to focus even though there are suddenly three Tobies swimming in front of him. 

“But he pulled me aside and told me it was over. He didn’t give me any detail but he made me promise I’d get you through it. That I wouldn’t let you, I don’t know, do anything stupid.”

“He loves you,” the Tobies say. _And fuck, Jan would do anything to get Paulo back right now, anything. _“He obviously loves you. Even if it’s not working right now. I’m not saying you should get back together, I’m just saying, as another person who- _loves- _you. Don’t be a dick about it.”

“Fuck you,” Jan says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t know which Toby to glare at, so he just turns around, and stumbles up the stairs clumsily. He climbs into Toby’s guest bed without taking both his shoes off, and that’s the last thing he remembers. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I’ve been away because I’ve been extremely struggling to manage ADHD symptoms for about the last year. As a life-long student who loves school and learning, ADHD has been a surprisingly horrible mix with grad school, (and unsurprisingly an even worse mix with a global pandemic). I thought stopping writing would help me focus more on school, but it turns out all that's done is make me a worse writer. So here I am, because apparently I can’t write anything academic unless I’m also writing fiction, and I can’t write fiction unless I have somewhere to post it.
> 
> I'm out of practice and this is nothing exciting. Just Jan rearranging his furniture, playing in the fall NLD, and trying to make the best out of a bad situation, because aren’t we all?

Jan comes around slowly, thoughts sleepily lagging a step offbeat. He doesn’t feel too awful—just a bit fuzzy, mouth just a bit dry. But there’s no shooting pain, no churning in his stomach. He turns over, and morning light dances across the inside of his eyelids, pinwheeling through his lazy mind.

_Oh_, a_m I still drunk?_

Surely he hadn’t had _that_ much. There were the vodka sodas, Dele had handed him two or three. And then he’d switched to whiskey. And _shit_, after that, there were only bits and pieces. Grabbing a drink from the table. Blonde hair in his face. Sliding down the bathroom wall, wondering if now might be a good time to text Paulo. Anguish in his eyes as he stared down three versions of Toby and mumbled, _fuck you. _Reaching for his phone again…

No, _surely not_.

Dread floods through him. He doesn’t remember texting Paulo, per se, but something in his heart makes him certain that he did. He reaches for his phone, discarded, upside down and dying on the bedside table. He opens WhatsApp, and there it is. Nine messages, all read, staring Jan straight in the face.

_Hey_

_Are you out?_

_I’m sorry I’m ready to talk_

_I love you_

_Paulo_

_I love you_

_Where are you?_

_Where ar3jj your?_

_PAWE_

_Oh no. _Oh god. Panic grips Jan as he navigates to his missed calls. Yeah, that’s what he thought. Four times. Four outgoing calls. Paulo hadn’t answered by the looks of it. Surely, Jan would have remembered if he had. Jan sits up, and his vision swirls dangerously.

_Right, I’m definitely still drunk. _

The beginning of a dizzy headache is pressing against the back of his eyes. He kneads his eyes with the palms of his hands, and wishes for death. This has to be one of the stupidest, most embarrassing things he’s ever done. He doesn’t really want to think about it. He wants to force it to the farthest corner of his mind, anything to avoid feeling the creeping, biting shame curling through his heart.

He’d like to stay in bed all day, but the drunken highlight reel scrolling through his brain reminds him how horribly he treated Toby last night. Toby, who’s been treating Jan like his own son ever since things started going south with Paulo. Yeah, he owes him an apology. Jan groans, drags himself out of bed and pads downstairs, gripping the railing tightly for support.

Toby’s sitting at the island in the kitchen, back facing the stairs. Jan stands there for a moment, collecting his errant thoughts, spinning head.

_“I’m sorry,” _he says. Toby nods once without turning around

“Really, I shouldn’t have said that. You were right,” Jan says, approaching the island.

“I know,” says Toby, when Jan reaches his side.

“I love you, too,” Jan says.

“I know,” says Toby, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looks at Jan expectantly, as if he knows that’s not the only thing Jan has to say. Jan purses his lips, slides into the seat.

“I drunk texted Paulo,” he says, regretfully, forehead resting on his fingertips.

Toby sighs deeply. “How bad?”

A wave of nausea runs through him, and he drops his forehead down to the cold counter.

“Bad,” he says, sliding his unlocked phone across the counter.

Toby moves his lips slightly as he reads, brow creasing just a little in the middle. Jan knows Toby well enough that he’s absolutely certain his friend is holding a number of disappointed exclamations back right now, but for once, Jan can’t see it on his face.

“Are you?” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“Hmm?”

“Are you ready to talk to him?”

Jan sighs. “No.”

“Jan,” Toby says. Yeah, there’s the disapproval. Jan deserves that.

“Fuck, I know,” he groans. “What do I do?”

“I think you have to just wait for him to reach out to you,” Toby says, sipping his coffee. “You need to give him some space.”

Jan nods, and rolls over onto his cheek. _I was the one who was supposed to need space. _The irony of that isn’t lost on Jan. He can feel the cold sweat of the hangover dotting his forehead, and he groans.

“Breakfast?” Toby says. Jan grunts noncommittally, but Toby brings him a cup of coffee and a slice of toast anyway.

It’s torture, forcing down the toast, waiting for Paulo to contact him. He nibbles on it, and with every bite his heart pounds in his chest and his insides squirm. He’s cold and clammy and his hands are sweating, too. He’s not even sure whether that’s the hangover, or the the fact that he has absolutely no idea what Paulo’s thinking, what he’s going to do.

Normally, he’d make himself throw up. Purge the poison. He knows he’ll probably regret not vomiting, but he can’t quite muster the courage to do it today. _Haven’t I already suffered enough?_

Jan thinks he has, but his body seems to disagree. So he chokes down enough coffee and water that he doesn’t throw up the toast, and tries his best to mentally prepare himself for the conversation he knows must be coming.

_I was drunk, I didn’t mean it. _

The disappointment in Paulo’s voice will probably kill him. He steels himself.

_I’m not ready to talk, it was a moment of weakness._

_God, was it ever._ He hates feeling like this. Wishes he could cut off all the feeling like an extra limb, and let it float away. It’s too much. There’s tiredness eating at the edges of his vision, and it seems easiest to give into it. He climbs the stairs, tumbles back into Toby’s guest bed, and falls asleep.

Jan wakes up to his phone ringing. He rubs the grogginess from his eyes, and answers the call.

“Jan?”

It’s Paulo, of course. Jan sits up, and his head pounds dryly.

“Yeah.”

“Hey,” Paulo’s voice is soft, gentle, and Jan wants to fall into it. “I got your texts.”

It throws him off. Jan had planned to tell Paulo he didn’t mean it. Planned to tell him he needed space, he needed time. But he sounds so close_, _so _Paulo_… Jan can’t even move his mouth to form the word ‘_sorry.’_

“Seems like you had a good night last night,” Paulo continues. A bite creeps into his voice, a nasty sneer that feels like a kick in the chest. Jan’s mouth finally comes unglued, and his voice lurches out like a runaway shopping cart.

“Look, Paulo, I-“

“No, _you look._” It’s stone cold in a way Jan’s never heard before. It shuts him up immediately. “You really hurt me. You might be ready to talk, but I’m not.”

“You can’t do this to me, Jan, I need space.”

Paulo’s voice breaks on his name and Jan wishes the earth would swallow him whole. Somehow he’d expected Paulo to be hopeful. Expected he’d explain, apologize, steel himself for an outburst, and let Paulo down easy. But now all of a sudden he feels like he’s the one getting dumped, like he’s the one getting his hopes stamped out. And Jan realizes it’s true. Deep down inside, he wanted to know Paulo still wanted him. Deep down inside, he’d just wanted a way back in.

“Jan?” Paulo says, and Jan realizes he’s been staring open mouthed at the phone for far too long. “Are you ok?”

And suddenly, Jan is unbearably angry with him. His brain has wrapped up all the uncomfortable self-loathing and clumsily forced it onto Paulo. _Is Jan ok? Of course he’s not ok. _What moron in his right mind would look at Jan right now, and even ask?

“Yeah, Paulo,” he says, harsh, barking laugh slipping past his lips. “Take all the space you need. It was just a drunk text. _Fuck,_ you didn’t think I actually wanted to talk, did you?”

Jan knows he overdid it on the last sentence, forced just a little too much performative bewilderment into those words. But all he can see is red. How _dare _he not want to talk to Jan? How dare he be the one to ask for space?

Paulo’s breathing steadily over the line, and Jan can almost see him: eyes closed, shaking his head incredulously at the unforgiving phone. When he speaks again, he sounds different, like he’s miles away.

“Jan?”

“Yeah?” Stupidly, his heart soars. Like Paulo’s about to take it all back, like he’s going to tell him it is time to talk, beg him to go back to the way things were. Paulo exhales slowly, and then he speaks.

“Please don’t contact me again.”

_Oh._

There’s a pause before Paulo hangs up the phone, just the amount of time it might have taken to say _I love you_. Jan keeps the phone at his ear for a couple more seconds, and then he hangs up, too.

Jan presses his face into Toby’s guest pillows, wills himself to calm down and go back to sleep. But he’s wide awake now, left alone with his anger, his confusion, and a pounding headache. He tries to read a book, but he can’t focus, can’t make his brain read the words on the page. He tries listening to the new episode of _Life in the Peloton, _but fifteen minutes go by and all he’s thinking about is Paulo’s sharp voice. _You really hurt me._

“_I _hurt _you?” _Jan mutters incredulously, rolling over onto his back. He doesn’t really mean it though. He knows he hurt Paulo. Really, he _knows_ that.

But Paulo also hurt him, and he doesn’t feel like his anger is entirely misplaced. Paulo knew Jan was inexperienced, knew he struggled with emotional intimacy. For weeks, he’d pestered Jan to open up, to tell him what was going on. He’d pushed and pushed, and the second Jan had tried to let Paulo in, Paulo had decided he wanted out. For all of Paulo’s grand ideas about communication and effort, two rough weeks and a bad fight were all it had taken for him throw the baby out with the bathwater.

Where was the line Jan had blindly crossed? What invisible measure had Paulo set out for him? How had he not noticed Paulo carefully filing away evidence against him until it was all too much? He desperately wants to ask, ring him back up and beg for answers.

_Please don’t contact me again, _he’d said.

Jan had only wanted a slight step back, a break from the constant intertwining of their lives, private and public, that crept over them as the season had progressed. He hadn’t really wanted to end it. And now he’s got the opposite. He’s still sitting here, spinning his wheels thinking about Paulo anyway. It feels so crushingly unfair, Jan can hardly bear it.

“_Fine_,” Jan hisses, rolling his eyes. “_Have your space.”_

He swings his leg through the air and it makes contact sharply with the door. He expected it to slam shut, satisfyingly, but instead it just vibrates in the air and creeps shakily shut. His toe hurts.

There’s a small noise, something between a chuckle and a cough. Toby’s in the doorway, lips parted like he’s about to say something. Jan walks over to the bedside table and picks up his kindle, just to have something to do with his hands.

“Hey uh, Jan,” Toby says nervously. _Fucking shit, Toby’s going to ask him to talk again, _or God forbid, _go somewhere. _Jan feels an eye roll coming on, and he looks out the window so Toby doesn’t see.

“Do you uh, need a ride home?”

_Oh, right. Toby wants me to go home. _He expects to feel dread, or maybe anger, but he doesn’t feel anything at all. He turns all the way toward the window, just so he won’t have to look at Toby’s face.

“Yeah, ok,” Jan says robotically.

“You’re going to be ok, Jan,” Toby says.

“Yeah.”

Jan starts to gather up all his stuff from the guest room. Toby must leave at some point, because when he looks back up at the door, crumpled sweater slipping between his fingers, it’s empty.

Jan sighs. He should really be nicer to Toby. He’s let him stay much longer than Jan probably deserved. And he still feels bad for yelling at him last night, even if he was drunk. Besides, Jan can’t avoid his house forever. He owns the damn place, and he’s not going to let a couple ghosts of Paulo scare him away.

Bag in hand, he knocks lightly on the frame of Toby’s living room door. Toby looks up from his phone.

“Hey,” Jan says, chewing his lip.

“You ready?” Toby asks.

“I, uh, actually ordered a Lyft,” Jan says. He hasn't, but suddenly, he can't stand to exist in the presence of Toby's knowing glance for another minute. 

“If you need anything-“

“I know,“ Jan cuts in. That phrase still reminds him of Paulo. He can’t help it. “Toby, I really can’t thank you enough.”

“You don’t have to, Jantje,” Toby says smiling lightly.

“Yes, I do.”

The thought of cooking dinner is too much to bear, so he orders a pizza on the way home. It arrives at the same time he does, and Jan thanks the delivery boy in a monotone. _He’s cute, _Jan thinks. _I could totally invite him in. I’m Jan Vertonghen._

He can’t, though. He tells himself it’s not worth the risk, but the truth is he’s scared. Paulo was the only man, practically the only _person_ he’d been with in the last ten years. Doing it with someone else? He can’t even begin to answer whether he’s ready for that. Besides, he doesn’t even want to. How could he have sex with someone who’s not Paulo?

_“Paulo,” _Jan whispers. _“What did you do to me?” _

Jan clutches the pizza box to his chest like a long lost child and runs down the stairs, past his pool table, and into his living room. He stands in the doorway for a moment, holding the pizza to his chest even though grease is dripping out of a corner and onto his shirt. The room has Paulo written all over it. The way the cushions are arranged just so, the blanket crumpled in the book basket. _The tissue box sitting on the table. _

It’s why he’s barely set foot in this since the break up. _It doesn’t have to be like this, _Jan thinks. He rolls up his sleeves, and sets the pizza box on the coffee table.

Jan drags the couch into the middle of the room. It’s not a great start. There are not one, not two, but _three_ condoms underneath, tied off and waiting for him like little booby traps in the dust that had gathered. It’s still a start. Jan tries not to wince as he wraps his hand in tissues, picks them up, runs up the stairs, and deposits them in the kitchen trash.

He unplugs the television, leans it up against the couch, and drags the TV shelves into the corner. It’s better this way, he tells himself, because now the light from the window won’t reflect off the screen in the morning. Never mind the fact that he rarely watches television in the morning. He sets the TV back on the stand, plugs it in, and tries not to think about that. He pushes the couch up against the wall opposite the TV, carries the coffee table in front of it, and drags the reclining chair over to the spot where the couch used to be.

Finally, he flips all the cushions, and is pleasantly surprised to discover they’re actually quite nice on the other side. He’d thought they were solid blue, but the other side has actually got small flowers embroidered in fine white thread. Was he really so unobservant that he’d never noticed?

It’s bad. There’s a big empty space where the couch used to be. It dwarfs the chair, makes it look lonely and drab. The whole room is lopsided, empty in a sliver expanding outward from the door. He’ll need more book cases, or maybe some plants. Maybe he should probably bring a decorator in for advice. He definitely needs to vacuum, but at least he can’t see the pool table through the door anymore.

Jan smiles, exhausted, and settles into his couch with the pizza box open on his lap, fists a slice and shoves the tip into his mouth. He puts his favorite show on, and for a moment, everything feels normal. Like nothing in the last six months happened, and he’s still just making his way through life best he can, on his own.

“I’ll give you so much space you don’t even know what to fucking _do _with it,” he tells the imaginary Paulo in his head.

He’s not going to talk to Paulo in training. He’s not going to so much as look at him. He’s going to laugh, and smile, and pretend everything is fine. He’ll drink beers with Toby, go to pub quizzes with Dier. And maybe when Paulo comes back (_yeah, right, _he thinks), he’ll be so over it he won’t even care (_yeah, right)._

He considers blocking Paulo’s number, just to stay on the safe side. He knows that’s what Toby would tell him to do. Hell, even Dele would probably tell him to do it.

_He’ll come around, and if he doesn’t, fuck him._

Jan finishes his pizza, forcing past the protests of his stomach. _My body’s going to be so mad at me, _he thinks. He’s not been eating enough, he certainly hasn’t been consistent, and now this. _Paulo would worry. _

_Yeah_, Paulo would do a lot of things. But he’s not here right now, so Jan tells himself it doesn’t matter. Jan tosses the empty pizza box toward the door and groans. Because what if Paulo does come back? What if Jan’s not over it? They’ll spend the rest of his life in mutual pining, never knowing what could have been.

In the end, he deletes Paulo’s number, deletes his WhatsApp contact, and erases their entire text conversation as well. Part of him is massively relieved, but his heart hurts as he imagines all the _I love you’s _they’d shared floating off into the ether. Still, it feels like a step in the right direction.

Or at least that’s what he tells himself. Honestly he’s just relieved he doesn’t have to look at Paulo’s name, sliding farther and farther down his recent messages. Doesn’t have to work so hard to resist opening up the conversation when he’s drunk, scrolling back until his eyes go fuzzy and he’s reading sweet nothings Paulo sent him while they were split across timezones, relaxing on beaches on opposite sides of the world.

He doesn’t want to know whether he has Paulo’s number memorized. It would be a ridiculous admission—he hasn’t memorized a single phone number save his own since he was a kid. He tries not to think about the fact that his drunk self is very capable of re-adding Paulo on WhatsApp. He’ll just have to avoid drinking for the next few weeks until the urge fades.

That night, he carries himself to bed with a lighter heart. He feels hopeful, for once. Hopeful that he’s moving in the right direction, hopeful that soon, he’ll remember how to be a person again, without Paulo.

Jan’s lost count of the number of times he’s found himself sat exhaustedly at Pochettino’s desk. They’re all starting to blur together, _I can’t start you, Jan. Jan, are you ok?_ He twiddles his thumbs, and mentally prepares himself for more of the same.

“You’re going to start this week, Jan,” says Pochettino.

It catches him off guard. _Have I been better in training this week? _Jan tries to think back, but he can’t remember a single thing he’d done.****

“Ok,” he says. Half his brain is still thinking about the entire pizza he finished last night, and the other half how it felt to delete Paulo’s number.

“Ok,” Pochettino parrots. “You know what to do.”

And then he’s gone.

Poch is right—Jan does know what to do. He’s started a hundred games. Probably two hundred, actually. And the familiarity of the routine- fitness tests, the slog of first team training, the extra helping of pasta he’ll eat a few hours before the game. He marvels at it. A whole week, perfectly planned by a menagerie of Tottenham staff, tweaked just for him. _God, had he really taken this for granted all these years?_

It’s so enticing, Jan doesn’t even stop to think about the fact that maybe Pochettino is starting him _because _he so clearly needs a place to focus his energy. He dives right in—to every tackle in morning training, to his lunchtime bowl of quinoa with white fish. He leans across the touchline on the tail end of every sprint, wind in his hair, smile on his face.

When the wellness coaches ask him how he’s been, he answers them honestly—the first time he’s done so in a few weeks.

_I haven’t been sleeping. I haven’t had sex in a month. No, not even by myself. I ate an entire pizza last night._

They look at him with wide, concerned eyes, and head out into the hall to confer amongst themselves for a few moments. When they come back in, they’re full of suggestions, the kind that seem obvious once they’re said aloud but hadn’t been obvious at all when Jan had been padding listlessly around Toby’s house.

_Set an alarm to remind yourself to go to bed. Read a new book. Change up your nutrition—but.. not too much._

Jan thinks of the Domino’s, and embarrassment fills his chest. All it took was a bad run of form, an even worse break up, and Jan had completely fallen apart. He’d thought he was stronger than that.

When he gets home, he buys _“Cycling: The Early Days of Racing” _for his kindle and reads the first three chapters over dinner. At 22:45, his watch buzzes gently and reminds him,

“It’s time to go to bed!”

He pops a melatonin and crawls between his freshly laundered sheets.

_Oh my God, _he thinks, clutching his comforter. _I’ve barely thought of Paulo all day._

His heart pounds in his chest, and he tries to take a few more deep breaths. He’s been busy today, too busy to dwell on his misstep the other night, on the way Paulo had flashed his green eyes past Jan in the locker room, what he and Paulo weren’t saying to each other. It occurs to Jan how much of his damn time he’s been spending thinking about him. It’s too much. _Surely, there’s some optimal balance to strike…_

Jan imagines himself picking up a brick, and putting it down by his own feet. Then another, and another, he makes a small circle around himself, and then starts on a second layer. When he gets to the fifth layer, the bricks are at mid-thigh. He looks up, and sees Paulo walking towards him. He smiles and waves, reaches out a hand, and then he falls asleep.

The rest of the week progresses similarly. He manages to eat, and sleep, and even avoid Paulo’s eye when they pass in the hall. It gets easier every time, more natural every day. He’d never talked to Paulo all that much _before, _and it’s shockingly easy to pretend none of it has ever happened. On the pitch, he meets every single one of Pochettino’s benchmarks, and by the time the Arsenal game rolls around, he’s actually feeling pretty good about himself.

It’s better than Jan can describe—walking out onto the field and taking his position next to Toby. Letting himself fall into the game, enter that pristine headspace where he’s guided by practiced decision, and instinct alone. The joy of each moment, carefully calculated risk and reaction, the _tock _of the ball hitting his foot and the energy flowing through his legs. The rush of a stadium full of screaming fans, and the burn in his lungs as he watches Eriksen put them up _1-0_. Flying high as Harry slots away his penalty and doubles their lead, _2-0_.

Once upon a time, he might have worried. Might have worried that Pochettino had selected Sanchez at right back, of all people. That Harry, usually so sharp in front of goal, seemed spent and inert. That there was a tension in the air, buzzing around Danny Rose, flitting its way over and forming dark clouds around Eriksen’s head. He might have worried for himself, because not all those careful decisions, ones he’d made a thousand times before, seemed to be paying off in just the same way. _And in a contract year, you can’t afford lower payoff. _

But it isn’t _once upon a time. _It’s now. So when Lacazette touches the ball past him and fires the ball into the waiting net, he doesn’t flinch. _2-1_. He’s still riding his high when Harry hits the post. Still riding high when he loses Aubameyang, who skirts past him towards Hugo and toes the ball into the goal. 2-2.

It wasn’t his fault, per se. He’s only one of eleven, and maybe Winksy could have stepped to Guendouzi a little sooner in midfield. But that doesn’t mean he could have done better. He’s vaguely aware of Hugo yelling, of Pochettino shaking his head. _Maybe I wasn’t ready, _his brain supplies. But he shakes himself. There’s still 20 minutes left to go.

But not ten minutes later, Arsenal have the ball in the net again, and Jan feels his heart break. Jan had slid in for the ball, and straight out of bounds, harsh grass biting at his thighs. And Sokratis was there behind, just a step quicker, to tap the ball into the net. _This can’t be happening. _Jan’s about to let his head fall backward onto the turf, but the ref blows his whistle—there’s a flag up, Kolasinac had received the ball offside. Jan’s so relieved, he has to fight to keep himself steady as he gets to his feet. “_I’m not slow,” _he breaths,_ “they were just offside."_

The rest of the game is a blur, and when the final whistle goes, Jan walks straight into the tunnel with his mouth hanging open. They’d given up a 2-0 lead, to _Arsenal. _Last year they’d lost 4-2, and Jan had been sent off. He’s no stranger to culpability and the North London Derby, but this feels different. Like he couldn’t have changed it, even if he had realized, even if he had tried. It’s not just him. Jan’s been caught up in his own troubles for weeks, and now that his head is up, he’s starting to see what’s going on around him. It’s Pochettino’s dull eyes after the game. Hugo’s anger. Winksy’s sad smile, because his Spurs, his beloved Spurs, are slipping.

Getting on the bus is the worst part. It’s stupid, because they’re not even going that far, just from the Emirates back to Enfield. On the way there, Jan had gotten on the bus first, and plugged directly into his podcast. He hadn’t even really thought about it. But now, there’s a dull, uncomfortable energy in the air. Jan’s not even sure who it’s directed at. And Paulo’s not making things any easier for him. He’s taken a seat near at the front of the bus, headphones over his ears. He watches Jan with a sad, thousand-yard stare that’s not quite _at _Jan, but maybe _through _him. He has to walk past to get to the empty seat Toby’s saved for him, and it feels like he’s being burned alive.

_It’s not my fault, _Jan tells Paulo, silently. _I’m fine._

He sits down next to Toby with a huff.

“I guess that’s a pretty fair reflection of the week I’ve had,” Jan says.

“What, the game?” Toby turns away from the window.

“Yeah, some up, some down.”

“Jan, your life doesn’t dictate the games,” Toby rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, I know that.”

“Still,” he says. “You seem better.” He gives Jan a once-over. “You look better.”

“The black eye was a nice touch, wasn’t it?”

Toby laughs a little too hard, and Jan realizes for the hundredth time how worried Toby must have been.

Toby catches his arm before he steps off the bus.

“Hey, Jan,” he says. “I wasn’t sure whether to ask before, you uh, weren’t in a good place.”

“What?”

“I’m having a few people over for drinks tonight, do you want to come?”

Yes, he does. He’s dying to go, dying to get the lowdown on whatever’s happening at Tottenham that he’s been too blind or too sad to notice. But he thinks back to last weekend, what happened the last time he started drinking.

“Yeah, I better not,” he says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. “Not ready to risk it.”

Toby almost looks proud of him, and that puts a little spring in his step as he bids him goodbye.

He only checks his phone once after he gets in bed, and the disappointment he feels at the blank screen adds another nick in his armor, along with all the scratches and scrapes from the game.

When Jan wakes up in the morning, he already knows what he’s going to find. He tells himself it’s stupid, there’s probably nothing. But no, he knows.

_It’s because you know Paulo, _says a little voice in the back of his head_._ He shuffles deeper underneath his comforter and takes a peep.

New iMessage

_Paulo Gazzaniga (3)_

Missed Call

_Paulo Gazzaniga (1)_

_Fuck_. Jan runs a hand over his eyes. Part of him doesn’t even want to read the messages. But part of him needs to know what Paulo said to him at 3:15 in the morning. Part of him desperately hopes it’s worse than what he did last week. He slides open the messages.

_Where are you?_

_Where are you?_

_I still love you_

Oh no. Jan’s heart jackrabbits in his chest. _I still love you. _

He wants to cry. He wants to scream. He wants to take three melatonin and sleep for the whole day. He wants to call Paulo back and serve him cold rejection the same way Paulo had done last week. But now it just feels cruel. Jan had been there, Jan _knows _what a bit of alcohol can make a person do.

He doesn’t call Toby, either. Paulo is a lot of things to Jan, but he’s also their teammate. With the dressing room already balanced on the head of a pin, Jan can’t bring himself to blow up Paulo’s spot.

It’s good timing, in a way, because it’s international break—the one time when Jan really doesn’t have to think about any of this. He was supposed to leave on Tuesday, but the thought of hanging around in London, Spurs spotty performance and Paulo’s “I love you” hanging over his head, makes him want to crawl out of his own skin. There’s no reason he can’t head home a little early.

So he packs a bag, calls his agent, and heads to the airport. He takes Paulo’s words and folds them up, but instead of tucking them away neatly in the dark corners of his mind, he wears them like a talisman over his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually already wrote a chapter covering Colchester, Leicester, Bayern, Brighton, and Watford back in the fall but I was struggling to get the mundane out of the way. There it is. Sex and angst picks back up in the next few chapters. Yippee!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jan half-heartedly tries to get back on the horse, and it doesn’t work.

When Jan wakes up in his childhood bedroom the next morning feeling more like Jan Vertonghen than he has in months. He’s miles away, a border and an ocean between his bed and Paulo’s—the distance that stretched him thin and bruised him last summer now a blessed relief. He sits up and tentatively takes a few sips of water, waiting for the usual creeping dread to retake him.

It doesn’t, though. Paulo’s still there, at least sort of—his last text plastered in all the hidden corners of Jan’s mind. _I still love you._

But there’s no tumble of joy, not even so much as a twitch in his chest. Just a dull ache, his heart beating on slowly like it always does. He tries playing back the last time Paulo said it to him in person. The time Jan couldn’t say it back. _But, I love you._

It echoes around emptily in Jan’s head. The voice is all wrong, and the pressure of Paulo’s cheek is nothing more than a wet sponge. He tries a couple more times, but he still can’t get it right. Can’t quite recall which syllable had made Paulo’s voice crack, whether he’d already been crying, or whether he was still on the edge.

The Paulo in his head nothing but a ghost, a cheap imitation—all the features are there, but Jan can’t piece them together in the right order. He’s studiously avoided thinking about Paulo for nearly a month, now, so it’s not altogether surprising. But still, he’d expected he’d feel something. And he does feel sad, of course he does, but it’s not same. Not here, in the home where he was raised, in the country of his birth. So he stands up, pulls on a pair of joggers, and heads into the kitchen.

He has a day all to himself, a day before he has to drive down to Tubize to meet up with the national team. He’s looking forward to it, maybe spending some time in town, hopping on a bike for a quick spin around the countryside.

In the meantime, Toby’s invited Jan to breakfast with his friends in Antwerp. Jan’s eager to attend, more eager than he’s been for anything in weeks. Jan has _questions. _It’s clearer than ever he’s missed something going on around the training ground, some lingering dread that’s stuck around from last season.

Jan arrives to lunch five minutes early. He thought he might be first, but one of Toby’s friends—Denis—is already there, leaning casually against a lamp post outside the restaurant.

“Hey, big man,” says Denis. He’s always been Jan’s favorite of Toby’s friends. Now, he greets him with a smile and a kiss on the cheek.

“Denis,” Jan says. “How’s your wife?”

“Pregnant,” he says, rolling his eyes. Jan feels an odd stab of jealousy he can’t quite place, and snuffs it out quickly. Last time he’d seen Denis, they’d been out in London. Paulo had been there, too—both tipsy, Jan winking and flirting until Paulo had dragged him off the dance floor and into the back of a cab.

“Heard about you,” Denis says, grinning sadly. “Is it true what they’re saying?”

“Is what true?” Jan says, suspiciously. Of course that’s the moment Toby chooses to arrive, and Jan could kill him.

“Denis,” Toby’s smiling warmly, sliding into his seat. “Always a pleasure.”

“Toby, man, how are you?”

“I’m-“

“No, wait-“ Jan says, cutting him off. “What are they saying?”

Jan can feel Toby’s trepidation from across the sidewalk, but Denis blunders on.

“They’re saying you haven’t wasted any time in getting back on the horse. My man, eh?” Denis punches him in the arm, and winks conspiratorily.

“The horse?” Jan says, looking back and forth between Denis and Toby.

“You know, _the horse-“ _

_“_Don’t worry about it,” Toby says, twiddling his thumbs. “It’s nothing.”

Jan is about to protest again, but Toby throws his arms around both their shoulders. “Come,” he says. “Let’s eat.”

It’s an average cafe—all white tile, faux-weathered wood and bronze pipe. Jan’s been in a hundred like it in city across the world. They order coffees and omelets, and Denis orders a bloody mary. Jan side eyes the drink when it arrives. He’d kill for one, but they have training later.

Toby tries his best to force smalltalk, but it’s clear Denis has other things on his mind. Jan’s fine with that; so does he. He stares into his coffee until the waitress arrives with their food, and Toby is momentarily distracted by his omelet.

“Ok,” Denis says. “So what’s actually going on with you lot over in London?”

“There’s been a bad mood around the club all year,” Toby says. Jan sits up a little straighter. “Christian, Danny Rose, some of the young players.”

“Cristian?” Jan says, shocked. He was supposed to be friends with Eriksen, how had Jan not noticed?

“He won’t sign a new contract,” Toby mumbles, mouth full of omelet. “We don’t really know specifics.”

“But why?” Denis says. “I don’t understand. You’re all living the dream. London, Champions League—what happened?”

“Hard to say,” Toby chews. “But there are deeper issues at the club. Pochettino wants, but Levy can’t give. Or won’t give.”

_Ah, how familiar. _He momentarily imagines his life free of demanding Argentines, and can’t decide whether that would be better or worse.

“He should back Pochettino,” Denis is saying. “Right?”

“It’s _complicated-“_

“I don’t buy it,” Jan cuts in. “Pochettino has to know what Levy is like by now. He signed a new contract last year. What did he expect?”

“Maybe,” Toby says. “But Jan, we don’t know what Levy promised. We don’t really know anything at all.”

“Hmm,” Jan mumbles, using his fork to collect omelet scraps into a pile on his plate.

“But don’t think I’m on his side. He likes young players” Toby continues, eyes dark. “Levy backs him, a lot of us go.”

Jan presses his fork into the omelet bits and shovels them into his mouth. _A lot of us go. _Suddenly, his demotion to the bench seems a lot more sinister.

“Boys, I’m late for a meeting,” Denis says, rising. Jan and Toby rise with him.

“Good to see you, friend,” Toby says, kissing Denis on either cheek.

“Hey,” Denis turns to Jan, grasping him by the shoulders. “Stop by our spot later, won’t you? You look like you could use a night out.”

Jan returns Denis’ kiss on the cheek, and nods.

“I’ll be there.”

Jan takes his seat, and Toby calls over the waitress for the check.

“Shit,” Jan mutters. “I really have been out of the loop.”

“It’s fine,” Toby says. “Understandable.”

Jan chews on his lip. Christian, Toby and Jan, all out of contract at the end of the year. In his mind, it hadn’t been an issue. In his mind, he’d simply sign a new deal, spend the next two or three years in London doing what he loved. But now it all looked different. Jan wonders how he missed the shifting landscape. Probably too caught up in Paulo. He feels a guilty stab of relief—with Paulo out of the picture now, he was free to focus on the security of his livelihood.

_Or to get back on the horse. _Denis’ words come flowing back to him. He’d been bothered about that before the omelets had shown up, but once Toby had started talking about the state of the dressing room, he’d forgotten.

“Toby,” he says, casually as he can muster. “When you first arrived, what was Denis saying? About, you know, _me_.”

“It’s just a rumor,” Toby rolls his eyes. “One of these stupid things-“

“Just tell me.”

“Apparently you’ve been sleeping with Eriksen’s wife,” Toby says, blunt as ever.

“I’ve _what_?!” Jan slams his hand down on the table, rattling the silverware, nearly sending his plate flying. “Why?”

“I said, it’s just a rumor, I don’t think anyone really-“

“Denis said-“

“Denis says a lot of things,” Toby says. “But there was the black eye, and you’ve been dropped for most of the season so far, so…”

“Does Paulo know?” Jan says, dumbly.

“Does it really matter?” Toby says. He folds his napkin and stands. “Come, Jan, we should head out. I have things to do.”

Jan stands, and follows Toby out the door.

“I’ll see you tonight, yeah?” Toby says.

“Yeah,” Jan confirms.

One foot inside that stupid club in Antwerp is enough for him to remember why he never, ever comes here.

“Jan, big man!” one of them shouts, and shoves a vodka soda into his hand. Jan tentatively sips at it. There’s actually training tomorrow, and Jan notices Toby himself is only drinking juice.

Still, it’s better to be polite. He swallows down half of it to appease them, and he can tell they’re all trying not to act disappointed when he sets it down on a small table in the stairwell.

It’s loud and it’s bright, hot and pulsing. All thick beats and floodlights cutting through fake smoke, sweet scent crawling up his nose and worming its way into his brain. It triggers a montage of drunken nights, sweaty palms on curves, men and women whose names he never knew. Back when he felt immortal in the way only youth can. When all he wanted was attention and a little bit of thrill, and a warm body to fill his own empty bed at the end of the night.

He could do it again, if he wanted to. There are a few girls looking at him through the hazy room—ones with long, shiny hair and bronzed faces. He knows the look. All he’d have to do is take one by the hand, lead her upstairs, and let her have her way with him.

But Paulo hadn’t given him a look, and Jan hadn’t taken him by the hand. Paulo had snuck up on him, snaked his fingers into Jan’s hair when he wasn’t even paying attention, and grabbed on tight. Jan can’t imagine doing that with anyone. Not the curvy blonde girl, or the clean cut man standing next to her. And he certainly can’t imagine waking up the next morning, wrapping his arms around a body that doesn’t belong to Paulo, kissing lips that don’t know how to move against his, coming under someone else’s touch.

Jan shakes his spinning head. Who is he kidding? He’s not going to sleep with anyone else. Especially not in Toby’s friends’ club. He’s only been inside for about fifteen minutes, but it’s been fifteen minutes too much. His shirt is already stuck to his back, and his head is near pounding. He takes a quick look around to make sure no one is watching him, slinks off to coat check, and heads out into the night.

The next morning, Jan wakes up with a start and a warm stickiness between his legs. There’s something comical about having a wet dream in his childhood home, but mostly he’s just embarrassed, and deeply thankful that he can't remember whatever it was he’d been dreaming about. Jan reaches down, and realizes that he’s still mostly hard even though he just came.

_It’s been nearly three weeks, _his brain supplies.

Much to the wellness team’s disappointment, he still hadn’t been wanking. He didn’t want to remember what it was like with Paulo. Didn’t want to slip into fantasize about someone he couldn’t have. But now, even the thought of coming under his own touch has Jan swelling into his sticky shorts, and yeah, this has gone on for too long.

Jan covers the wet bulge between his legs and starts to rub. The friction of it is new to him, and it’s _good, _and suddenly it’s peaking again and he’s spilling onto his stomach.

He cleans himself off feeling vaguely dissatisfied. Somehow he’d expected more of a payoff after not coming for three _fucking_ weeks. _It’s because it’s not Paulo, _Jan’s brain says, and he slams the bathroom door so hard he hears a chicken squawk in the back yard.

It’s a bit of a drive down to Tubize, where the Belgium camp is located, and Jan is eager to spend it alone—his last little bit of time to himself before a week of football and travel. They’re to spend three days training with the team at home before away games in San Marino and Scotland. Jan’s been looking forward to it. He’s always liked seeing new places, and besides, the farther away he is from London and Paulo, the better.

It’s good to see his teammates, too. Over the years, many of them have grown into friends. After months spent in his own head, in turmoil over his own relationship, it’s a bit of a joy to recall. He heads out to training, nodding, bumping elbows, unable to keep the smile off his face.

“Hey, man. How’re you holding up?”

It’s Nacer Chadli, his old Tottenham teammate, looking at him a bit too kindly. He _can’t _know, surely…

“Holding up?” Jan says, trying to feign confusion. He’s not sure whether he pulls it off.

“I heard about you and Paulo,” Chadli says earnestly. And, seriously? Did everyone know?

He must have made a face, because Chadli claps him on the back and laughs.

“Come on, Jan, half the squad knew,” he says.

“So long as it was only half,” Jan snarks.

“Sure,” Chadli says, shrugging.

The training is light, and fun. And it’s incredible how easy it is not to think of Paulo. Jan’s been in the national team set up for years, and Tubize feels natural, the place he goes to think only of football and Belgium.

Paulo had never _been _to Belgium. Paulo didn’t speak Dutch, and he didn’t speak French. He’d never met any of Jan’s family, never seen any of the places he’d grown up—not the fields behind his mother’s house, the cathedral in Antwerp center, or the green pastures on the way down south. Jan had once dreamt of showing him. They’d talked about going, and Jan had even shown him around on Google street view. But it had never happened. There was none of him here, and Jan was immensely thankful.

The days fly by, and next thing Jan knows, he’s on the team plane next to Dries Mertens and they’re jetting off to San Marino.

“Isn’t that a tomato?” says Dries.

“That’s San Marzano,” Jan says, tiredly, scrolling through Spotify looking for a decent podcast.

“Ok, Mr. Crossword Puzzle,” Dries says, rolling his eyes.

Jan laughs. He’s about to put in his headphones, but Dries pulls on his hand.

“Hey,” he says. “Fancy a game of cards?”

“Sure,” Jan says. “Why not?”

Jan winds his headphones around his phone and tucks it into his pocket. Dries wants to play Go Fish. It’s simple, and it’s boring, and if it were anyone else Jan would have said no. But Dries has a way of getting what he wants, and Jan could use the company. Besides, he’s not altogether sure Dries knows any other card games.

San Marino is beautiful, nestled in the middle of Italy like hidden treasure. Jan watches the mountains fly by beneath him, then rolling green hills, and the ocean on the horizon. Absently, he wonders whether Paulo has ever been here, whether Paulo might want to rent a little car and drive all the way from Belgium. Then he catches himself.

They win, of course. Belgium’s group is so painfully easy Jan feels like he could send one of his brothers out in his place and nobody would notice the difference. The stadium is nearly empty as well. It’s still a lift, and the coaching staff seems intent on using it to boost morale. They’ve got the ground floor of their hotel rented out, and permission to drink (but not _too _much).

A huge bucket of beers greets them in the lobby, surrounded by bottles of wine. What Jan really wants is whiskey, but he gets why there’s none here. Jan grabs a beer from the bucket and heads over to a booth with Toby and Nacer Chadli.

“Dries thinks you’re cute,” Chadli says.

“Dries? Really?”

Toby’s shooting daggers at Nacer—clearly he doesn’t approve of whatever this is with Dries. Jan can’t help a little spark of anger. He’s an adult, he can make his own decisions.

“How do you know?” Jan says, curiosity piqued. It would be so nice to get the taste of Paulo off his tongue.

“I asked him,” Nacer says, winking.

“You _asked _him?” Jan yelps. “What if he thinks I want to-“

“Jan, relax. He thinks you’re cute. So what if he thinks you asked?” Nacer’s easy grin is totally at odds with Toby’s stony silence.

“Hm,” he says. “Interesting.” There wouldn’t be anything _wrong _with sleeping with Dries, Jan tells himself. He’s single, and he’s sure he can keep it casual.

A memory bubbles to the surface, _years ago. _Jan can’t quite dredge all of it up, but he’s certain he remembers Dries’ big eyes, wide and pleading, looking up at him. And the promise of more, ended so suddenly with vomit all over his shoes. _Ok, _Jan thinks. _Maybe there was something there._

Jan can tell Toby wants to say something, but not in front of Nacer. Jan’s pretty sure he already knows what it is. Something about being smart with his feelings, not making rash decisions, and not fucking another teammate. Jan doesn’t want to hear it, so he slides carefully out of the booth to get another beer. _H_e’s on his second, barely starting to feel tipsy. _I’ve been drinking too much lately, _he thinks.

“Hey,” says a familiar voice. Jan whips his neck around so fast his sunglasses almost fly off his head.

Dries is there, standing behind him with a smug look on his face.

“Oh, hey,” Jan says lamely. He wracks his brain for something clever to say, but nothing else comes out.

“Fancy a smoke?” Dries says, rocking back on his heels. _Does Jan want to be high right now? Yes, yes he does. _

“Yeah absolutely,” Jan says, grabbing another beer from the bucket on the table.

Dries is already walking across the room toward the door. Jan smooths his hair and follows him.

Outside on the steps, Dries is already lighting up a fat joint. Jan cracks open his beer.

“How’s London, mate?” Dries’ approximation of Cockney is ridiculous, and Jan laughs as he plucks the joint from Dries’ outstretched fingers.

“London,” Jan says, taking a puff. “It’s London. None of the sunshine you get over in Italy.”

Sunshine. Dries is tan, almost glowing. Jan sneaks a peak at his lips when he hands the joint back. He imagines kissing those lips as they close around the tip of the joint. Then Jan catches himself, and drags his eyes back up.

“No,” Dries says. “I suppose not.”

_Pathetic, _Jan thinks, taking a long sip. _You’re talking about the fucking weather. _

“You were good today,” Jan says, finally. “Really good. Nice goal.”

“Aw, shucks,” says Dries. “Here,” he says, holding back out the joint.

Jan takes his turn, but when he goes to pass it back, Dries has his phone out. _Oh. Jan_ takes an extra puff.

Dries is still on his phone, and Jan starts to wonder whether he imagined that conversation with Chadli, or whether it was all just a big joke.

_Paulo would know what to do, _Jan thinks. He imagines reaching out, running his hair through Dries’ golden hair, ensnaring his hand in the back and pulling.

Dries looks up, and Jan hands him the joint. There’s definitely a brush there, maybe Dries’ thumb lingers for just a little too long. To be honest, Jan can’t tell. There’s no electricity, barely even a feeling of warmth.

_There doesn’t have to be, _Jan reasons. _I’ve slept with loads of people I had no connection with. _Never mind the fact that it was so long ago it might has well have been another lifetime. Jan feels his fingers twitch toward the back of Dries’ neck, but in the end, he just lets his hand drop.

_I can’t, _Jan thinks. _What if he kicks me?_

Dries exhales loudly, and looks at Jan with heavy eyes. “We’ve gotten old, Jan.”

“Psh, speak for yourself,” Jan scoffs, picking at his thumbnail. But it’s true. Jan’s almost thirty three, and so is Dries. Ancient by footballing standards.

“Napoli’s leading scorer. It was a nice dream,” Dries spins the joint in his hand, and holds it out.

Jan takes it. He knows he’s supposed to say something, knows Dries is asking him to make him believe. But his brain is growing fuzzy around the edges, and all he can do is sigh.

“It’s not over yet, Dries,” he says. Dries’ name feels weird in his mouth. He’s said it a hundred times before, but he’s never said it with the intent of whispering it into his ear later. Jan swallows dryly.

“We’ll see,” Dries says, looking at the ground.

_Now, _Jan thinks.

He reaches a hand out, catches him around the wrist. Dries exhales a cloud of smoke into his face and laughs, but he threads his fingers through Jan’s anyway. It’s the most contact he’s had in weeks, and suddenly his heart is thumping in his chest, and he can feel his cock stirring to life between his legs.

Minutes pass, maybe, and he can feel Dries leaning into him, or maybe he’s leaning into Dries. Dries holds the joint out, raising his eyebrows. Jan leans forward, and Dries places it between his lips. He takes a drag, and closes his eyes, exhaling. Dries has a hand on his waist, it’s warm, and Jan is so high. Through his haze, Jan feels Dries’ phone vibrate against Jan’s knuckles.

Dries sighs. “Sorry.”

He drops Jan’s hand and takes out his phone.

“Here, you finish it,” he holds the joint back out, and Jan can only take it.

“See you later, V.”

Jan’s as confused by the nickname as he is by Dries’ sudden disappearance. V? Really? He watches Dries walk past him and leave without looking back.

There’s about a quarter left of the joint, and Jan doesn’t know what else to do, so he stands there, mouth dry, still half hard in his jeans, and brings it back to his lips.

_I should’ve just grabbed him by the hair, _Jan thinks. _Maybe then he would’ve stayed. _He probably would have. Maybe then he’d finally be getting some human attention on his starved cock.

_But it wouldn’t be the same, _says a little voice in the back of his head. He’s been shouting down that voice all week, even though he knows it’s right.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, under his breath. 

Jan squashes the butt of the joint beneath his heel, and drains the rest of his beer. He’s tired, he’s horny, and now he’s high as hell.

_I need to go home._

Jan heads back inside, and walks slowly back to the table with Nacer and Toby.

“I thought you said he thought I was cute,” Jan says.

“He does,” Chadli’s sipping on a soda, toothpick wagging at the corner of his mouth. “Guess he thinks Hazard is cuter.”

Jan follows his gaze. Dries is standing in the corner with Eden Hazard. Eden has one hand on the small of Dries’ back, and he’s whispering in his ear. _Ah, well. _Jan searches himself for a pang of jealousy, some small piece of his ego that cares Dries picked someone else over him, but there’s nothing there. He doesn’t feel anything at all.

Back in his hotel room, Jan unbuttons his pants, frustrated. It’s not like he really wanted Dries, not like he actually cares he can’t have him. But God, it would be so nice having someone with him right now. A wet mouth licking and sucking at his hard cock, maybe trailing back, tongue probing… Plush cheeks he could nudge to the side, and _press. _Ease the ache he can’t quite soothe himself.

Instead, all he has are his own hands. Jan sits there in the dark, mouth half open and eyes hooded, stroking himself in time to actors on a screen. He lies back amongst the pillows, chest heaving, desperate to feel something different, something new. He tries on Dries, the feel of him clenching hard around Jan’s cock, the way he might look coming all over his chest.

_“Oof,” _he mutters, spilling into his own hand, unable to stop the orgasm or the unexpected guilt that comes with it. And then he’s empty—drunk, high, and lying amongst the stiff white of the hotel sheets, wondering if he’ll ever be the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to split this up before I got to the good part because it was getting too long. I'll be posting the rest of it in a few days.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And that's why this is called 'It's Happened Again' :)

Jan avoids Dries for the rest of the week. He has a feeling Dries is avoiding him, too. He’s not worried. By the time the next international break rolls around, the awkwardness will have dissipated, the indiscretions long forgotten. But for the time being, however, he’d rather avoid looking his friend in the eye.

They win against Scotland, Jan turning carefully toward Lukaku when Dries scores. He takes a knock on the ankle, too, sharp cleats bruising into his bone. The night doesn’t feel like a win, just a reminder of his own fragility and the passing of time. There’s another party, but Jan’s not in the mood. He doesn’t want to be around other people.

Toby’s gesturing to him across the room, but Jan just smiles, shakes his head. He grabs a beer from the familiar lobby setup and ducks into the elevator. Maybe he’ll take a night to himself—zip up in a large coat, one that covers most of his face, and head out into the chilly Edinburgh night. Maybe he’ll take his beer and head out into the city, lights blurring into darkness in his unseeing eyes. Maybe he could head back into town and find a pub, meet a nice stranger who doesn’t know his name, who doesn’t pull his hair, who doesn’t speak Spanish.

But Jan’s not that brave anymore, so he just slips out of his shoes and sits down on the edge of his bed. Jan scrolls through his phone, fingers mindlessly retrieving the last text from Paulo.

_I still love you_

Does he still love Paulo? Jan searches himself. There’s certainly enough to love about him. Paulo is kind, he’s interesting, and he’s probably one of the most beautiful people Jan will ever meet. Being with him had been cozy and fulfilling, and at times, unbelievably intense. He’d loved that, _cherished_ it, right up until the uncomfortable end. Jan’s reluctant to admit it to himself, but the answer is almost certainly yes, he _does _still love Paulo. And if he thinks about it too hard, Jan’s still a little bit tempted to tap out the easy response and just hit send.

_I still love you, too. _

If that were enough, Jan supposes they’d still be together. Loving Paulo has taken a toll on him. He remembers waking up in his own bed in his mother’s home earlier that week, feeling more like himself than he had since the summer. He’d stumbled through the last few months like the ghost of Jan Vertonghen, a shell of his former self on the pitch, too wrapped up in his own little world with Paulo to notice the seeds of trouble fate had sewed in his friends’ lives.

Surely, _surely _there was a way he could be both—Paulo’s Jan, his own, and everyone else’s. A month on, it still doesn’t make sense to him. Because Paulo, the Paulo he still loves, would happily abide by that, let Jan take his space and work through things on the other side. Maybe he hadn’t communicated clearly, because if he had, surely Paulo would’ve understood.

For a minute he’s tempted enough to do it. Just click the little phone icon underneath Paulo’s name and have it out with him, again. But it’s been a month, _a whole month, _and if Paulo had really thought they had anything left to talk about, he would’ve tried again. Right?

_He did try, _says a little voice in the back of Jan’s head. _He said he still loved you. _

But a drunk text at three in the morning doesn’t feel like enough. It certainly hadn’t meant anything when he’d done it, when he’d gone out with Dele and Winksy and passed out in Toby’s guest bed. He’d deleted the texts he’d sent, but he still remembered them well enough. He’d told Paulo he wanted to talk, that he was ready. But he wasn’t then, and he isn’t sure if he is now. So instead, he takes a double dose of melatonin, and crawls into bed to pass out before he has the chance to do something he regrets.

In the morning, Jan takes the train back to London, the easy click of tracks, gentle rocking puts him at ease, nearly lulling him to sleep. He slept well the night before, nearly ten hours, but he’s still exhausted. Despite the combined efforts of the Belgium and Tottenham wellness coaches, the whirlwind week with the national team had screwed up his sleep schedule and his appetite. And that hadn’t been anything compared to the schedule that awaited him back in London.

Seven games, twenty one days. Cup games, Champions League, the emotion of it all. And Paulo, close enough to reach out and touch—thank God Jan hadn’t texted him last night. The last thing he needs is Paulo drama. He’s barely played a full game this year, let alone two or three in a week. Jan has no idea whether his body will cooperate, whether his mind will start to fray at the edges under stress.

Dier texts him the address for a pub quiz when he’s halfway home from the train station. He’d planned on going straight home, popping a few more melatonin and sleeping for twelve hours straight. But the moment he’d stepped off the train, he’d felt restless, and rather displaced. He needed a night out, one without Toby’s watchful eyes, or the pressure of finding someone new. So when he gets home, Jan drops his luggage in the foyer, pulls on a leather jacket over his sweater, and heads right back out the door.

It’s just Dier, and Ben Davies, and Jan can handle that. They’ve already got a corner booth and a beer for him. The DJ announcing the pub quiz is young, charming, and easy on the eyes.

“We’re not actually playing,” Eric explains, gesturing toward a notepad on the table. “Figured it’d be best not to draw too much attention to ourselves if we win.”

“If we win? We’re pretty much nailed on,” Ben says, showing him the notebook. He’s been marking off the answers for each round, and each page is filled with nearly perfect scores.

“Jan, hurry up and finish your drink,” Eric says.

“Relax, mate,” Jan says. “I’ve been here for all of five minutes.”

“More than enough,” Eric says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m getting another round. That’ll be gone when I get back.”

“What’s with the Dele impression?” Jan says, once Eric has stood up and tottered away toward the bar.

“He’s a bit in his feelings about England duty,” Ben says, somewhat apologetically.

“Fair enough,” Jan says, swallowing down a large gulp of beer. He’d never really faced any competition for the Belgium squad. If he was fit, he played. Sometimes he played when he wasn’t fit. He knew it was similar for Ben with Wales.

“Just humor him,” Ben says, shaking his head. “It’s only beer. I’ve asked the bartender to start cutting his drinks if he switches to anything harder.”

Jan laughs, and relaxes into the evening. It’s simple, it’s easy, and for once, nobody’s focused on him. He’s not Toby’s problem, and he’s not Paulo’s whole world. Tonight, he’s just Jan—friend, teammate, and pub quiz player.

When the quiz ends, Ben takes the notebook, and tallies up their points in the margin. They do well, easily well enough to win had they actually been playing.

“Ugh,” Ben groans, flipping the notebook closed and tossing it into the middle of the table. “Would’ve been good enough for first. I like winning things.”

“Gotta celebrate,” Eric says, matter-of-factly. “You game for another round?”

“On me,” Ben says, getting to his feet. Jan nods, meeting Ben’s significant glance.

Eric does look sad, and Jan feels a little twinge of guilt. Come to think of it, Eric hasn’t been playing much these last few months either. Maybe even longer. There’d been injury after injury, and now he’s been cut from the England squad. It’s been months now, and Jan should’ve noticed, _should’ve been there_.

“You alright?” he says eventually, tapping Eric’s hand.

Eric sighs. “I guess.”

“These things come in waves.” He’s aiming reassurance, but he’s not quite sure he nails it.

“Do they, now?” Eric says bitterly. “What would you know of it?”

It’s a fair point. He’s been injured before, even long-term injuries with extended recoveries. But he’s never had his body totally fail him like Eric’s seemed to be. Until maybe now. It’s different, though. Jan is thirty-three, starting to slope down the wrong side of natural decline. Eric is twenty-five and in his prime.

“I’m going to get myself shipped off to Burnley,” Eric whispers. It’s so pathetic, Jan has to resist the urge to reach across the booth and ruffle his hair.

“Hey, chin up,” Jan says. “You’re at least worth Southampton.”

“They’re a pressing side,” Eric says, pained. “I can’t-“

“It was a joke, Eric.”

“Oh,” Eric says, looking into his empty beer glass. “Sorry.”

“You can’t go up forever,” Jan says, serious now. “It doesn’t mean you won’t go up again someday.”

“Yeah, I know,” Eric says. “It’s just-“ he shrugs.

“It’s hard to swallow,” Jan finishes for him. Eric nods.

Ben returns with more beers, and a deck of cards.

“Snagged these from the bartender,” he says, tossing the cards on to the table. “Anyone up for a round of Hearts?”

“Are we betting?” Jan says. “I could use a little pocket change.”

Jan is a little too tipsy to really be into Hearts just now, and he’s definitely going to lose a bunch of money if they’re betting. But the conversation with Eric was so desperately sad, and just a little too raw, he has to do something. Eric just shrugs, so Jan grabs the cards and deals.

After a few rounds, Jan is comfortably drunk, and Eric has a growing pile of cash in front of him. Jan’s not even trying to lose, he’s legitimately just not very good at this game. Jan can see the smile sliding back on to Eric’s face, hear him crowing and taunting with the confidence of a champion. His drunken heart swells with pride; it’s definitely worth it. 

He’s about to grab another round for the table when the text comes in. A sharp vibration in his pocket, and a shiver down his spine. It’s one in the morning, who else could it be? Jan slides open the message, mouth watering, heart pounding in his chest.

_Where are you?_

Short, obvious, to the point. Jan had expected excitement, anger or at least minor annoyance, and he’s not sure if he feels all of that, or none. It’s been a long month, and Jan barely even knows what feelings are anymore.

_I don’t need to respond, _he thinks, tucking his phone into his back pocket. _I don’t want to respond. I’m not going to. I’m going to walk over to the bar and order more drinks._

Robotically, Jan stands up and walks to the bar.

“Vodka soda,” he says. The bartender raises an eyebrow at him.

“Double,” says Jan.

The bartender shrugs, and turns around to make his drink.

Jan pays, takes a hearty sip, and heads back to his chair. Dier and Davies are too gone to notice he didn’t bring back their beers. Jan tries to pay attention, tries to laugh at the horrible joke Dier had just made. It’s been a good night, and he’s not keen to ruin it by involving his ex. He’s been too angry with Paulo. Longed for him too desperately. He can’t do it, can’t let him back in. He rearranges the front of his trousers, and gulps down as much of the vodka soda as he can stomach.

_Good question, Paulo, where am I? _Jan wonders. He thinks back over the past week. His relief at being home, muted joy of winning games with Belgium, embarrassment of his half-hearted attempt at wooing Dries. The way his heart still ached and his body always wanted more after he made himself come.

No, he _really _shouldn’t. He’s not happy, per se, but he’s making progress. He’s undoubtedly making progress. _Right_? So why is he taking out his phone, typing out the address of the bar he’s in, and hitting send?

Jan swallows heavily, looking around. Eric’s got the cards, showing off his shuffling tricks, and Ben is laughing. It’s been such a good night. If he hadn’t responded, he knows he’d just keep thinking about it. And Paulo’s no reason to ruin a good time. Jan knows it’s a bullshit excuse before the thought even forms in his mind. He doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to admit the pathetic truth that even thinking about _thinking about _Paulo has him hard in his jeans.

Jan’s phone vibrates in his pocket, and he tries not to jump.

_I’m outside. Taxi._

Jan exhales slowly, shoves two fingers under his collar, and glances around. That had happened fast. _Am I really going to do this? _

An image flashes through his mind, so overpowering it’s almost a feeling. Paulo’s pink, plush lips, sliding over the tip of his cock. Who is Jan kidding? Of course he’s going to do it.

_Be right out_

Jan thanks his lucky stars it’s only Dier and Davies here in this bar with him, not Toby or someone nosy like Lamela. He drains the rest of his drink and sets the empty glass down on the table and gets to his feet.

“Alright, it’s past my bedtime,” he says, forcing his best yawn and rearranging his leather jacket over his arm to cover his crotch.

“Old man,” Dier scoffs, drunken twinkle in his eye.

“Catch you tomorrow, Jan,” says Davies.

And then Jan’s throwing on his jacket and running out the door, scanning, searching. _Ah_, there. A taxi, parked under a tree a little ways down the street. Jan opens the door and slides in.

Paulo’s beautiful. Jan has never seen his eyes like this, crystal clear and deep as anything. He doesn’t speak, just stares at Jan like he’s the only thing in the world. His cheeks are faintly pink, and his dark shirt is clinging to his chest delicately, biceps bulging out like they’re made of stone. If Jan hadn’t already been hard for the last 20 minutes, he’d definitely be hard now.

The taxi pulls out, but Jan barely clocks it. He wets his lips to speak, but his voice dies in his throat when Paulo inches his hand across the seat, covers Jan’s pinky with his. _Holy shit. _Heart pounding, he slides his hand forward, threads his fingers between Paulo’s.

And then, it happens. Jan doesn’t quite know how, but suddenly Paulo’s lips are on his cheek, his hand pressing roses into Jan’s ribcage, body pinning him back against the door. And he’s so hard, rocking against Paulo’s big leg, and when Paulo finally kisses him on the lips Jan has to squirm away because he might come, and _Oh, God, if he could only get himself under control._

Jan closes his eyes and takes a couple deep breaths, brain working desperately to catch up. Maybe they should slow down, maybe they should stop and _think. _He wipes his mouth and opens it to speak.

“Shh, shh shh,” Paulo whispers. He curls his hand gently at the nape of Jan’s neck, and his thoughts go fuzzy. “Don’t.”

“But-“

“No, baby,” Paulo moans, trailing his hand down Jan’s chest. “We don’t have to talk,”

_Baby. _It makes his chest ache, and suddenly, he’s not hovering on the edge any more. The last thing Jan wants to do right now is talk, he’s probably forgotten how, but he can still read between the lines. He leans his head back against the window, and Paulo kisses him. What Paulo really means is that this doesn’t mean a thing.

_Oh, Paulo._ None of it matters. Jan was never going to be able to stop anyway. Paulo tastes like whiskey, bitter under Jan’s tongue. And if Jan could form a single thought he’d probably have questions, like how much Paulo has had or whether he’s been drinking alone.

But Paulo’s fingers have already reached the buttons on Jan’s jeans, and he’s already moaning into Paulo’s mouth. Paulo kisses him harder, sinking his teeth into Jan’s lip like he’s trying to take it from him. He’s kissing like it’s been years, like he knows what Jan knows—that they’re broken and they can never go back, only forward. It hurts so bad, and he pours it into Paulo, digs his fingernails into Paulo’s neck. Leaves dark red scratches when Paulo finally gets his jeans open and wraps a hand around Jan’s erection.

It’s heaven, and it’s everything Jan’s been missing. His own hand hasn’t felt right since he broke up with Paulo. And this, _oh my god. _Jan can barely think, can barely work his lips to keep kissing Paulo back.

“Sweetie,” he whispers wetly against Paulo’s ear. _You know me better than anyone else, _he wants to say.

But Paulo slides his thumb over Jan’s tip, and he _definitely _can’t talk right now. He whimpers openmouthed against Paulo’s cheek, lets Paulo stroke him right there in the backseat of the car without a care in the world.

Jan’s sweaty and pliant under Paulo’s hand by the time they reach Paulo’s house. Paulo climbs off him and the absence leaves him cold and out of sorts. He buttons his jeans and stumbles out of the car and after Paulo into the house, lips red, hair askew, and raging erection barely concealed by too-tight jeans.

Paulo manhandles him up the stairs, pinching and pushing into the bedroom, spreading him out on his unmade bed. Jan’s clothes are stuck to his body with sweat, and it’s a relief to get them off, a relief to finally press his chest to Paulo’s, to feel Paulo’s cock hard and leaking against his own.

“Touch me,” Jan says, breathlessly. Paulo reaches between them and wraps a hand loosely around his dick, and Jan slaps it away.

“No, not there.”

He plucks a tube of lube off the bedside table and shoves it into Paulo’s hand. He lets his legs fall to the sides, and waits while Paulo slicks up his fingers.

Paulo sighs a little when he presses his first finger in, and Jan cries out and arches off the bed. God how he _missed _him, missed this. Paulo’s curling his finger just so, and Jan’s squirming against him. He’d happily die, just like this, if it meant he’d never have to feel it end.

He burns when Paulo works in a second finger, scissoring and spreading, pushing him into pleasure. But his heart is twisting in his chest and he can’t just lie there anymore, can’t just let Paulo fuck him like things had never changed. Because this is Paulo, who he’d loved. Paulo, who he maybe still did. Paulo, who’d broken his heart once, who’d probably do it again. Jan grabs Paulo by the shoulders, and pushes him down to the mattress.

“Hold still,” he says. He climbs over Paulo’s hips, lines himself up with the leaking tip of Paulo’s dick.

He barely registers the sound Paulo makes when he sinks down, all he can handle thinking about is how good it feels, how _fucking good _it feels sitting on Paulo’s hard cock again, skin-to-skin again even though in the back of his mind he knows it’s a horrible idea.

He fucks himself on Paulo with abandon, like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. He can’t remember ever having Paulo like this, so desperate, so submissive. Paulo’s fingers scrabble at his hips, Spanish spills from his lips in waves. Jan might understand if he were slightly more sober, but he’s not, and he’s lost in Paulo’s body anyway.

And Jan likes it. He likes the way Paulo’s giving into him, likes the way he’s coming apart right there, between Jan’s thighs. All he wants is more, wants Paulo to feel him, to _know he’s there. _

He wraps a hand around Paulo’s neck lightly. “_Is this ok?” _

“_Si,” _Paulo nods. He squeezes, watches Paulo in the throes of ecstasy, and _God, _he could come from the look on his face. He’s so close to the edge, he’s definitely going to lose it before he can finish Paulo like this.

“_Jan,” _Paulo gasps, fingers pulling Jan’s hand, voice hoarse.

Jan lets go, and falls forward on to Paulo’s heaving chest. Paulo holds his hips steady and thrusts up into him, and _oh. _His cock is rubbing against Paulo’s stomach now and he can feel himself tightening up as Paulo slips up inside him again, and then he’s coming, dying in a world of pleasure, gasping for air as he spurts all over Paulo’s chest.

When Jan comes down, he’s lying on top of Paulo, and Paulo’s still pulsing inside him. _I’d forgotten what he feels like when he comes, _Jan thinks.

“Oh, God,” says Paulo, laughing breathlessly. It’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Let me clean you off.” Paulo says, running his hands down Jan’s sweaty back.

He slips out of Jan, turns him over onto the bed and disappears into the bathroom. He returns with a warm, wet towel, and a little smile on his face. He strokes Jan’s hair, and wipes him down, and Jan doesn’t have the energy to wonder whether this is a bad idea, or what any of it means. Eventually, Paulo tosses the towel and crawls into bed next to him. He wraps his arms around Jan’s midsection, and reaches for Jan’s hands. It’s too good to be true and he knows it—Paulo’s big arms holding him close, his thumbs stroking Jan’s palms tenderly. He tries to stay awake, to take it all in while he still has the chance, but he can’t fight forever, and eventually he drops off to sleep.

He wakes up to Paulo getting out of bed. He doesn’t need to wait for the events of the night to come rushing back; they’re already there, cued up in his mind from a series of dreams that couldn’t have possibly measured up to real life. Even in the cold light of the morning, he doesn’t regret it. At least not yet. But Paulo’s already standing, pulling on his underwear, looking at Jan with big, sorrowful eyes. _Yeah, _it’s about time for a rough conversation.

Paulo pulls on his jeans, and stands.

“What does this mean?” he says.

It’s so earnest, Jan has to resist the urge to throw the pillow he’s hugging in Paulo’s face.

“I don’t know,” Jan says, running his hands over his face, and through his sex-mussed hair. He sits up in bed and scoots around until his feet are on the floor. He’s not hungover, mercifully. But he’s starting to see why this might have been a bad idea.

He’d thought they were on the same page last night, that this was a one-time thing they weren’t going to talk about. Paulo had _said, b_ut Jan probably should have known better. Paulo has never done anything casually in his life. And judging from the tone of his voice now… Jan rests his head in his hands.

“Do you want to talk?” Paulo tiptoes closer, rests a hand on his shoulder. _Oh, boy._ He can’t even bring himself to look at Paulo right now.

“I don’t know,” Jan says through his hands. Paulo sighs and steps back.

“Why did you leave with me?” Paulo tries again. Jan does know the answer to this one. It’s been burning in his chest, dying to get out since last night.

But it hurts, so he says nothing and shakes his head. Paulo sighs, and falls back into the pillows behind him, still half-clothed.

“Jan-“

“I miss you,” Jan says, finally. Paulo stops and looks up, lips parted.

“The sex- _no one-_“ he stutters, swallows lamely. “I just miss you.”

“You miss me,” Paulo says, frowning. “But nothing’s changed?”

Jan chews on his lip for a long time before he speaks. If Paulo had changed his mind, if he was ready to be reasonable, _maybe…_

“Has anything changed for you?” he says, eventually. His throat is so dry, and it aches coming out.

“No.” Paulo’s eyes go dark. “No, nothing’s changed.”

“Right,” Jan says. It was unbearable, the sweetness of sex still hanging in the air, a thousand touches gentle as anything, Paulo’s words slicing right through it like butter.

“Well then,” Paulo says, coldly. “If you’re not willing to talk to me, then-“

“You keep saying that,” Jan says, gripping Paulo’s comforter in frustration. “It’s not that I’m not willing to talk to you. I just-“

He breaks off for a minute, willing himself to calm down, to unclench his jaw.

“I just need a little space to be my own person,” he finishes, quietly.

“Whatever you say, Jan,” Paulo says.

Jan’s stomach twists painfully at the bitterness there. He can tell Paulo doesn’t believe him without even turning around—hear him fidgeting with one of his decorative pillows, breath spilling out in small, angry puffs. He’s probably busy preparing another guilt trip about communication and space, and yeah, maybe yesterday he’d been prepared to take it. But somehow, fucking Paulo like that had changed things. He’s done. He stands up, and turns to Paulo.

“Paulo, if you really wanted to fix things, you wouldn’t have texted me at one in the morning.” Paulo looks at his hands guiltily, and Jan keeps going.

“You wouldn’t have picked me up in a cab, shoved your hand down my pants, dragged me to your bedroom and let me hold you down while I-“

“_Jan.”_

_“_Sorry_,” _Jan takes a deep breath, kneading his thighs.

“Anyway, if you really thought anything had changed, you wouldn’t have done it like this, and you know it.”

Paulo doesn’t have anything to say to that, so Jan knows he’s right. He stands up, dresses himself silently. Paulo watches him, expression completely inscrutable. He’s still watching Jan when he finishes, walks toward Paulo’s bedroom door. Jan pauses for a moment, thinking. He could just go, could leave it here. But he feels free in a way he didn’t feel last night, and so he walks over to Paulo. He’s towering over Paulo on the bed, and it feels backwards.

“Why did you text me last night?” he says. It comes out an octave lower than he intended, and for a minute he almost leans forward, almost tips back into Paulos arms.

“I-“ Paulo opens and shuts his mouth a few times, apparently unable to choke anything else out. Jan leans down and kisses Paulo once, on the mouth. He straightens up when he feels Paulo’s hand ghost his cheek.

“You miss me, too,” Jan says, turning away. “That’s why.”


End file.
